


Red Raven

by PlotlessWanderer



Series: Red Raven [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Arson, Assassination, Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Biological Weapons, Child Neglect, Different First Meetings, Geeze these tags sound bad..., Gen, Grand Theft, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not a Robin Au, POV Tim Drake, Petty Theft, Physical Disability, Tim Drake-centric, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, implied attempted molestation, not as bad as it sounds, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 134,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23980567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlotlessWanderer/pseuds/PlotlessWanderer
Summary: The sky cracks, whistles. Shouts and music blare from the house. Jason laughs and snags the bottle of port from the snow, lifting it over his head like a toast as fireworks spark in the sky. They’re in a bad spot, only able to see the bare edge of the display, but the colors of the fireworks sparkle in the cracks of the pond, over the cleanest patches of the dirty piles of snow. Jason upends the bottle, adding more color, laughing uproariously as he spins in a circle before dropping it and raising both middle fingers to the sky.“Happy fucking new year!” He howls.And Tim laughs.(Or; A different meeting in a different time and place has enormous consequences)
Series: Red Raven [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932565
Comments: 226
Kudos: 474





	1. Chapter 1 : Arc 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been inspired to do some late Spring cleaning. I am finally down to my computer and everything that lurks therein. This is one of those lurking things. And since its just sitting there, years old and gathering metaphorical dust, I figured 'Why not throw it into the void?'  
> So, here you go, Void. Enjoy

Tim didn't like parties of any sort, but if he was forced to attend, an adult party was better than a childs. The birthday and graduations and other celebratory gatherings of his peers were even more stressful than charity gala’s and masquerades. 

At least adults had rules, limits children were not allowed to push. A kids party was a free-for-all and Tim was perfectly happy to skip such things, thank you very much. And seeing how the last time he’d been locked in a pottery shed and forgotten for nearly a day his parents were not intent on pushing the issue. 

That being said, this event was turning out to be worse than anticipated. It was New Years eve, a few hours before the ball was set to drop and Tim had lost his parents for the fifth time in the crush. In fact was he was starting to think maybe he wasn't the one doing the losing, but the one being lost. 

Squeezing through a sea of fine suits and finer gowns, smiling charmingly on the rare occasion anyone bothered to look down, he headed for the nearest wall. It was always safer there, with people congregating in smaller groups or alone and remaining stationary. He was careful to avoid any alcoves or hidden places; stumbling on a tryst was never a pleasant experience. And there had been one memorable occasion when some nameless graying man tried to guide him into one alone, hands uncomfortably low on his back. 

Finally reaching his goal Tim spent a moment mastering the urge to wheeze audibly for breath. An elbow had caught the side of his head in the crowd, setting it ringing and mussing his hair. He attempted to pat it carefully back into order before his mother saw. 

The party was picking up, the laughter louder and less inhibited, the dance floor fuller and moving to a faster and more rhythmic beat. Harder liquor was starting to replace the very fine champagne as quality was traded in for quantity. 

It was so very loud. Behind the blandly pleasant mask of a polite child Tim was holding back a wince. His head throbbed. Had been throbbing for hours. The champagne his father had insisted he taste was upsetting his stomach, mixing nastily with the sedative his mother had given him before leaving home. 

He wanted quiet. Quiet and dark and small. A closest maybe, he thought wistfully. A cupboard would have been even better. Smaller and with pipes he could tap on, just to listen to the dull sounds they made. 

He was by a wall that led to a patio and though he knew he shouldn't, that it was against the rules and unsocial and possibly dangerous if someone like that old man was lurking outside, Tim edged outside anyway. 

It was cold. Tucking his hands beneath his suit jacket and hunching down, he crunched over a light dusting off snow. His breath steamed in front of his face. There were voices coming from the left side of the patio, a light feminine laugh and the deep tones of a man. He went the other way. 

It was cold, but Tim found he didn't mind. It was quiet, at least, and the sky was uncommonly clear. The last storm had driven away a lot of the city pollution and the stars were sharp and brilliant in the sky, keeping company with a bare sliver of moon. 

Humming tunelessly beneath his breath Tim stepped off the patio onto the snowy lawn, abruptly delighted with the crisp crack from the frozen grass beneath snow. Sneaking a careful look around for any witnesses, he began trotting in circles, making patterns in the the snow.

It was nice. The cold helped with the nausea, though it did make him sleepy. By the time he reached the back of the decently sized garden he was shaking and with frozen fingers, but calmer. 

He stood admiring the rough geometric trail he had left when he smelled smoke and stopped. Sniffing carefully and turning in place, he saw it pluming from a small gazebo tucked beneath a willow tree, smoke twining around the winter stripped, icicle dripping branches. 

It wasn't a nice smell. Nothing like the tobacco his father or his associates occasionally smoked. Not even like the marijuana his nanny secretly used. It was rougher and sharper and chemical, almost enough for Tim to avoid it. 

But his very worst trait was curiosity. Or so he was told. Sometimes it was his lack of focus, or childishness, or unsocial attitude. But usually curiosity. 

So, stepping as lightly as painfully new dress shoes would allow, he crept close enough to peek over the railing.

And promptly froze. The boy was almost completely turned away but Tim recognized him easily. Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne’s most recent ward. Rougher even than Dick Grayson had been and with almost none of the charm. His mother had complained about the other boy frequently, wondering where on earth Mister Wayne kept finding such creatures and why in the world he bothered with them at all.

But Tim liked him. Like both of them, really. They weren't like the children he had grown up with. They were… fresher. Less forced. Fun to watch. 

“If you’re tryin’ to sneak up on me you're doing a lousy job of it,” Jason drawled, pulling the dangling cigarette from his mouth to wave it lazily through the air. Tim shifted uncomfortably and clenched his fingers into the material of his shirt, tucking them beneath his arm pits. 

“Sorry to bother you. I just smelled the smoke…” and followed it like a dog. The strength of his blush was enough to almost thaw his numb nose, setting it stinging. 

Perched on the far railing of the gazebo, Jason finally turned to look at him. The cigarette rested in one hand and a half empty bottle of port in the other. A trio of butts were lined carefully atop the railing at his hip and Tim realized he must have been out there for a while. 

“Huh,” Jason snorted, looking Tim up and down with an arched brow. “Aren’t you a little young to be here?”

“No one seems to think so,” Tim said diplomatically. Honestly, he thought he was too young to be here, if only because no one else his age was. And it would have been nice to be in bed. 

Jason made a strange sound, something between a huff and a grumble, turning around all the way to drop his feet onto the plank floor of the gazebo with a thud. “How old are you? Five?”  
“Eight, actually.”  
Jason lifted the cigarette, took a long drag and then carefully blew the stream of smoke off to the side, away from Tim. “Thats really fucking young, kid. Where’re your parents?”

Tim didn't know, of course, but smiled widely, with teeth like his father had taught him even though he preferred to smile closed mouthed. Teeth meant confidence. “Inside.”

Jason smirked. “Specifically?”

“In the ballroom.” Probably, at least.

“Are you lost?”

“No. I just liked the snow and it was very hot inside.”

That had the advantage of being completely true and Tim waited to see what Jason would do with it.

Jason hummed, puffed, watched with rock steady eyes. Tim cocked his head and watched back. The sedative and champagne had settled, left him feeling floaty and calm. Like his insides had been scooped out and replaced with cotton, all soft and cool. 

“You should go back in. Its too cold.”

“You should too.” Feeling bold, Tim clambered over the railing that was just a few inches less than his height and thumped onto the other side. Another quick scan revealed no one else and he edged casually closer. “Did you drink all of that?”

“This?” Jason shook the bottle and scoffed. “No. Maybe a quarter. Its not very good. Pretty nasty actually.”

Tim squinted through the gloom at the label. “Its a good year. My father has several.”

“Your father had shit taste, is what he has.”

Tim sighed and stared at the older boy with mild reproach, the way his favorite teacher did when he said his classmates were being too childish. “He has expensive taste.”

Jason laughed. It was a quiet, rough sort of sound. Probably from the smoke. 

“You’re a little strange, aren't you?”

Tim couldn't say whether he was or not. Some people had called him special, but that never seemed to pan out well for him. He smiled wider and kept quiet.

“Sure you don’t want to go back in? I’ll, uh, I’ll take you, if you want.”

Tim was not an expert on people but it was very clearly obvious that Jason would rather pull his own tooth than do so.

“No thank you. I’d like to stay outside a little longer.” Ducking his chin slightly, he peered through the fringe of his hair with abrupt uncertainty. “I can go if I’m bothering you.”

Jason waved and blew a rude noise between his lips. “Nah. Not like I own the place.”

“The Steinhaurer’s do,” Tim agreed and finally closed the distance, standing just out of arms reach and looking over the railing where Jason had been facing. There was a little pond tucked in the corner of the garden, frozen over but cracked like broken glass. Snow had been shoveled against the garden wall and smears of dirt and dead grass streaked the piles. It wasn't very interesting.

“So, anything good happening inside?”

Tim thought about it. He didn't know what Jason would qualify as ‘good’.

“The band switched out. Its jazz now.”

“Huh. Better than that funeral stuff they were playing earlier, at least. Stupid mood music, God, rich people really have the absolute crummiest taste.”

Tim brushed snow off the railing and folded his arms over it, dropping his chin to rest on them. He had to stand on his toes to attain the position but it was comfortable enough. 

“What do you like listening to?” He asked, and oh, he really was getting sleepy. That wasn't good. There were still hours left.

Beside him Jason paused. “Lots of kinds. I’m pretty eclectic.”

“Oh?” Tim said encouragingly. He sounded like his mother and winced at the thought. Thankfully, Jason simply sounded amused. 

“Yeah. Classical actually isn't bad, though if you tell anyone I said so I’ll kick your ass. What about you?”

“Hmm.” Blinking heavily, Tim gave the question some thought. He didn't particularly like or dislike music but, “We have a victrola at home and one of the records has swing. I like that.”

“Swing, huh?” When Tim turned his head over he could see Jason grinning around the cigarette, face glowing gold from the smoldering end. “Alfred listens to that sometimes. And dances. For an old fart he can really move.”

Tim wondered absently who Alfred was but didn't ask. They sat in silence for a while, Tim’s frosty breath rising up to mingle with Jason’s smoke. It was relaxing, more than the drug or cold could account for. Comfortable. Tim was never comfortable with other people but didn't want to question it. It was just… nice.

Then rough fingers brushed the back of his hand and he startled, skittering upright and to the side.

“Shit kid, you're freezing. How long you been out here, anyway?”

Good question. Tim pushed back his sleeve to check his watch. “Oh. Half an hour.”

“Christ.” 

Tim glanced back up and stared as Jason shrugged off his jacket and dropped it gracelessly over Tim’s head. It smelled like smoke and expensive deodorant and was very, very warm. He parted it and peered uncertainly up.

“Umm,” he said stupidly and flushed. No one had ever given him their jacket before. “Thank you?”

“Don’t mention it,“ Jason growled and it sounded like a threat.

Intrigued by the heat and the smell, Tim receded back into the jacket. There were pockets containing a box of cigarettes, a few sticks of gum, two different phones and, of all things, a handful of mismatched earrings. Trying to be subtle his poked a hand into one sleeve and flapped it. It was weirdly satisfying.

“Planning on coming out anytime soon?” Jason asked.

“Why do you have earrings in your pocket?”

“Why are you going through my pockets without permission?” Jason replied.

That was fair. Tim closed the front of the jacket but wiggled his face out. “Won’t you be cold?”

“Nope.” The last glowing stub of the cigarette left trails through the air as Jason waved airily. “Cold doesn't bother me much.”

“Why aren't you inside?” 

Jason heaved a sigh. “Who’d want to be? You ran out too, so its not like you have a leg to stand on.”

This was also fair. Tim nodded. “Okay.”

His stomach gurgled and Jason cocked his head to side eye him. He grinned.

“How are you hungry? The one good thing about these stupid parties is the food, and this one has a buffet.”

“It was too tall,” Tim admitted wistfully. And after the champagne he felt too sick to eat anything. Maybe it was finally flushing through his system?

“Now thats just sad.” Lifting his hip and digging though the pocket of his trousers, Jason produced a napkin wrapped bundle with an awkward flourish. “Want some?”

Tim edged closer more out of curiosity than desire to eat whatever was in the crumpled fabric. “What is it?”

“A roll, some shrimp. Nuts. Things that’ll last.” Jason unwrapped the bundle and held it out in his cupped hand. “Word or advice; never take anything that’ll fall apart, leak or melt.”

Tim eyed the half eaten roll dubiously. It looked tasty but it was, after all, half eaten. He took a few shrimp and a handful of candied almonds. “Thank you.”

“Want to sit up here? Here, I’ll give you a hand.”

‘A hand’ involved Jason wrapping unfairly large hands around his upper arms and lifting him bodily up. Tim was fairly sure he squeaked but couldn't tell over the roaring of his pulse. 

Once it quieted he could hear Jason laughing at him, cigarette and port dropped into the snow as he steadied Tim’s wobbling. 

“You sure you're actually eight? I swear, I’ve seen Pomeranians that weigh more than you.”

“Then you're really bad at estimating weight,” Tim said snappishly and promptly choked. Oh no.

But Jason only laughed harder, a full on cackle that any of the people here wouldn't be caught dead releasing. Tim sat there uncertainly, clutching his handful of shrimp and nuts.

“Oh man. Oh man,” Jason forced out around a broad grin, “Kid, you’re fucking weird. Man, you're face was priceless. Ah.”

“Happy to entertain.” And Tim managed to say without sounding sullen. Probably.

Jason just cackled more. 

“You know, I’ve met you before right?” Jason asked after managing to contain himself. The crinkles around his eyes had gathered tears and his face was red. “I mean, I probably have but I don’t remember.”

“Thats alright. We met a few months ago at the Teagues’s harvest party. I’m Timothy Drake.” Wiping his hand on the napkin draped over the railing between them, he offered it gravely. “Its nice to meet you.”

“Same, kid. I’m Jason Todd. Sorry for not recognizing you, but I usually don’t care.”

“That’s fine.” The shrimp were bland without any sauce but Tim ate them anyway. He swung his feet, heels knocking lightly against the railing. It was poor manners but seeing as Jason seemed to be composed entirely of poor manners Tim felt confident he would get away with it. 

“Who are you here with?” He asked.

“Bruce, who else?” Jason watched him from the corner of his eye again. “I’m assuming you know about Bruce?”

“Everyone knows about Mister Wayne.”

“Ain’t that the fucking truth,” Jason muttered bitterly.

Tim continued kicking and wondered if Mister Wayne had lost Jason that same way Tim had been lost. It wasn't a nice thought. 

“I get that he has to, to socialize,” Jason says the word way others would say Raw Sewage, “but I can’t stand it. It gives me the creeps, watching all that fucking glad handing. I don’t want anything to do with it.”

Tim crunches on the last of the almonds and looks Jason over. Rumpled, slouched, smelling of smoke and with an undone tie hanging limp around his neck, he certainly doesn't look like he’d fit in. And he’s broader, rougher than most of the kids his age, all compact muscle.

“You probably wouldn't be an asset in that regard,” Tim says thoughtfully. “You’re not cute enough.”

“An asset?” Jason laughs sharply. “What the hell?”

Tim’s kicking rhythm stumbles and he turns back to the shattered pond, self conscious and nervous. 

“You know. Be polite and nice to the adults, let them know your parents are doing well with you so they know your parents will do well with them. Be a credit to the family.”

“Huh.” This time it sounds thoughtful rather than almost angry. “Like a con. Yeah, I can see that, soften people up with something cute. And you're about as disgustingly cute as a brat can get.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees quietly. He looks at his knees poking from beneath Jason’s jacket and shuffles. “I’m good at it.”

“Good at it? How?”

Jason sounds… quieter. Interested. Tim peeks at him.

“I’m two grades ahead. People are impressed by that, or at least they say so.”

“Oh yeah? Well I’m a grade behind. No one’s impressed by that.”

Tim cocks his head. “You’re intelligent though. Grades…” he gestures uselessly, not sure what he wants to say or how to say it if he did. “don’t matter. I know a lot of kids that are advanced a grade or two and they can be very stupid.” He glances sideways. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Jason coughs and then promptly lights another cigarette (Tim thinks it might be counter intuitive but doesn't say so). “Thanks.”

“I don’t like being in advanced classes,” Tim admits. Its not the first time he had said it, but it is the first time it feels like someone will listen.

“Why not? Bigger kids bully you?”

“No.” At most they steal his notes and say nasty things when the teachers are out of ear shot. “No, but I don’t like it. Its hard and boring and I don’t like my tutor.”

“That sucks. Alfred tutors me.” Dragging hand over the bristly hair at the back of his neck, Jason ducks his head. “He’s technically a butler. Which is fucking bizarre. Still can’t believe I live with a butler.”

“Is he nice?” Tim asks. It dawns on him that he’s talking childishly, asking childish questions. But Jason doesn't seem to notice. Surely its fine, out here where no one can hear. Its probably fine.

“Oh yeah. Really, really great.” Stubbing out the barely started cigarette and tucking it into his pocket, Jason turns the full force of his grin on Tim. “He’s really cool. Weird, but cool. And a good teacher, I’ll probably be in the right grade in a few months.”

Tim takes in the other boys grin, the lift in his tone. “Do you actually like school?”

Jason stops, frowns a little in thought and then grunts. It sounds surprised.

“Yeah, actually. Yeah, I do. I mean, all the kids there are asses and the teachers aren't any better, but its… its fun to actually learn stuff.” He laughs softly. “Its good.”

The distant music from the ballroom cuts out, replaced by a synchronized countdown and Tim jerks back his sleeve, staring at the time with surprise. His stomach twists with nerves. His parents expected him to be there for photographs.

“Wow, that late? Want to count down?” Jason hops off the railing and stands in front of him, hands stuffed in his pockets, nose running and face red. 

“Okay.” Tim says.

“Alright. Seven. Six.”

Tim huddles deeper into the jacket to hide a grin, muffle his counting, but he meets Jason’s eyes.

“Five. Four. Three.”

This is nice, Tim thinks. Maybe his parents won’t mind.

“Two.”

And if they do… well, it was still nice. Tim doesn't think he’ll mind.

“One!”

The sky cracks, whistles. Shouts and music blare from the house. Jason laughs and snag the bottle of port from the snow, lifting it over his head like a toast as fireworks spark in the sky. They’re in a bad spot, only able to see the bare edge of the display, but the colors of the fireworks sparkle in the cracks of the pond, over the cleanest patches of the dirty piles of snow. Jason upends the bottle, adding more color, laughing uproariously as he spins in a circle before dropping it and raising both middle fingers to the sky.

“Happy fucking new year!” He howls.

And Tim laughs.

His parents are unhappy with him, of course. The pictures were salvaged by changing the focus from Happy Family to Doting Husband and Wife, tucked into a corner holding hands and watching each other. Its unlikely anyone would bother to question the whereabouts of the Drake child anyway. 

Jack and Janet demand to know where he was and for the first time he finds himself lying. He fell asleep in the library, he says. The champagne made him sleepy. His father is angry, tells him Drake men have better tolerance. Tim believes him but doesn't point out that he is not a man yet. That would be flippant. 

And by the end of the week he barely thinks of the encounter at all. It was fun but ultimately unimportant. 

His parents return to their travels and Tim settles back into the routine of stalking the city and hoping for glimpses of Batman and Robin. Sometimes he wonders if their meeting made his surveillance worse or better. 

Either way, its not like he's going to stop.


	2. Chapter 2

Summer was at its fiercest and its fiercest was proving to be deadly. 

The heatwave that had encased the city was starting to seem more like a heat ocean. Dense, humid, inescapable heat that crushed petty humanity under its weight. Homicides and other violent crime had gone up significantly. There were deaths in the homeless and low income communities. Someone was setting fires almost nightly, striking randomly. 

Tim hated it. No matter how much he showered or what he wore he always felt dirty, sweat making him sticky. Power outages were happening more frequently and lasting longer and the city was advised not to use air conditioning unless absolutely necessary. It was only a little more bearable at night. 

Hitching his book bag higher on his shoulder, Tim slogged through the heat and lightheadedness of dehydration. Nothing was staying down recently and he couldn't tell if it was the heat or an illness. Going out everyday to various tutors and cram schools was proving almost unbearable.

He wanted to stay home so badly. It was summer vacation, it should have been alright for him to do so. But this was the price for gymnastics class and the computer course at the university. His parents had agreed on the understanding that he would climb another grade.

And oh he hated it. But he wanted those classes too badly to say no. When he learned Barbara Gordan, Batgirl and possibly the most amazing person he had ever seen, was a gymnastics champion he had wanted to learn too. 

And to his surprise it was fun. Horribly exhausting and painful but so much fun. Like nothing he had ever done. Similar to ballet but a thousand times better. Sometimes he was slightly embarrassed at starting it solely due to hero worship, but then he would land a flip perfectly or beat his personal best at consecutive somersaults and realized it didn't matter why he’d started. Only that he would be able to keep doing it. 

So. Summer tutors and cram school. 

To make matters even worse the Drake’s housekeeper had conveniently been called away when the power outages started and was out of town, leaving Tim at the mercy of progressively less reliable temp services. Someone was supposed to come every night to feed him, but the last two had failed to show. The car service was missing the standard appointments due to short staff and now picketers. So he was more often than not forced to use public transport which was a hell unto itself. 

His breath was coming hard as he crested the hill, home finally coming in sight. Pausing and bracing his hands on his knees until the ringing in his ears stopped, Tim squinted through heat waves at the car smoking at the curb. It was sleek and new but nondescript. The passenger side was crumpled but whatever had done the damage was nowhere in sight. 

Bracing himself for the last stretch Tim walked on. As he passed the car he saw a man sitting in the front seat, legs resting out of the door. He was white haired and slender, wearing a crisp shirt and waistcoat, which seemed like a terrible idea in the heat. Tim himself had broken lifelong conditioning and stripped to his undershirt. 

He continued to face straight ahead but watched out of the corner of his eye, noting the blood dripping from a gash at the mans temple. It was slow but the handkerchief held against the wound was already soaked. 

The car was only a few houses down from Tim’s.

He stopped, hands wringing the strap of his book bag as he snuck a sideways glance at the man. It was so hot, the car was smoking and even if there was no air conditioning the house was significantly cooler. 

“Excuse me sir.” Trotting back to the open door, Tim pasted on his best introductory smile. “I’m sorry to bother you, but are you alright? Do you need a phone?”

Gray blue eyes slanted, crinkled in a smile as the man turned to face him fully. His hair was indeed very white, whiter than his shirt, and he was clearly very old, but he did not seem at all frail. Tim was abruptly embarrassed for butting in when the man seemed more capable than Tim would ever be in his life. 

“I already called the authorities, but thank you very kindly for your concern.” Smiling serenely the man gestured to a compact little phone tucked onto the dashboard. “Unfortunately they won’t be here for some time.”

“Oh.” Tim shuffled and tried not to pant. It was so very hot. “Will, um, will anyone else come get you?”

“Not for some time,” the man repeated and his smile only grew.

Tim felt quite small under that steady regard and looked down at his feet instead. He was terrible at interacting with people without prior instruction. He could be perfectly charming when his parents told him to be, could interact with almost anyone if the end goal was told to him before hand. But initiating like this was horribly awkward. 

He flicked another glance at the blood and swallowed, grip tightening further on the strap even as he smiled brightly.

“Would you like to wait at my house? Its a little cooler, at least, and there are cold drinks.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful. Will your parents be alright with it?”

Tim didn't think this man would do anything bad to him but he wasn't stupid; he would absolutely not let him know he was alone. “Of course.”

The walk back home was awkward, as Tim couldn't decided whether to offer support to someone who did not appear to need it at all. It seemed like it would be the polite thing to do, considering the mans age and current condition, but other than holding the handkerchief to his head his posture was perfect and his gait smooth. In the end Tim walked slightly in front, miserably silent. 

He waffled on where to put him before deciding on the kitchen. It wasn't the sitting room or study, where guests were usually put, but the kitchen was the coolest part of the house, situated in the back and out of the sun. And Tim was too tired to play host properly. 

Tucking his book bag into the corner of the entry way and smothering the guilt of leaving it out of place, he beckoned the man to follow.

“Would you like some lemonade, tea? There is water too.”

“Water would be much appreciated, thank you.” Somehow the man managed to make sitting on a stool at the kitchen island regal.

Tim scuttled to the fridge and took out one of the last bottles of spring water left. There was little left in general. He opened the bottle in deference to the mans one handed state before passing it over. 

“I think we have a first aid kit upstairs. I’ll be right back.”

Pale eyes twinkled. Tim had always thought that description was metaphorical and also cheesy. Now, he was forced to confront the fact that eyes could, indeed, sparkle. 

“No need to trouble yourself further, young man. I will be perfectly well without it.”

“Well, yes, you probably would. But just because your fine without out doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be better with it.”

If possible the mans smile warmed further. The wrinkled around his eyes compressed into a web of thin shadows.

“Very well put. In that case, I will humbly accept your aid.”

Flushing, edging backwards towards the door, Tim smiled. “Right. I’ll be right back.”

Maintaining an dignified pace only until he was sure he was out of sight, he sprinted up the stairs. The kit was right where he’d last left it, under a pile of towels in his bathroom cabinet, and he hefted it down. It wasn't as heavy as it had once been, but it was still awkwardly bulky and he was forced to balance it against his chest, both arms locked around its plastic girth. A snap closure he had left loose bit into his wrist, a bit of karma for his laziness, probably.

Going down the stairs was a slower ordeal than ascending had been, but all in all he was back within three minutes and setting the case onto the counter and popping it open.

As Tim carefully lined the necessary items in a row on the countertop he used the action to introduce himself without eye contact. 

“My name is Tim,” he said brightly. He wasn't quite comfortable giving his full name to a stranger, though if the man chose to take down the address a quick search online would give him all the information he wanted. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, in spite of the circumstances. I am Alfred Pennyworth.”

Tim paused in the act of pulling on exam gloves (extra small but still laughably oversized on his hands) and glanced up. “Jason’s butler?”

Alfred’s faded blue eyes managed to become both impossibly sharper and softer all at once. “You know Master Jason, then?”

Tim flushed and busied himself with clambering onto a stool and peering at the gash tucked to the side of Alfred’s receding hairline. 

“Not well. We met a year ago.” Carefully swabbing away congealed blood and delicately sponging the wound itself with disinfectant, Tim managed to relax slightly. With this to focus on the talking was easier. “He mentioned you a few times.”

“All good things.” 

It was said as an absolute statement of fact, with a small quirk of a smile. Tim barely managed to choke back a giggle.

“Of course,” he agreed with due solemnity.

After a moment of deliberation he selected a small butterfly bandage. The wound was very small, but it was a head wound and he knew that the elderly often bled more. He wished there was something better than bottled water and tea to offer, something to help recovery in the face of blood loss. 

“Where did you meet?”

“At a new years party.” Tim slowed in the act of taping gauze over the butterfly bandage and added quietly “He was very nice.”

“He always is,” Alfred said softly, smiling. “ Though most people fail to notice.”

Tim doesn't know what to say to that and so shrugs, though its not a gesture thats encouraged in his deportment classes. “Would you like some ibuprofen?”

“Yes thank you.”

Tim passes over two of the little pills and muses on the weirdness of the whole encounter. It feels more like sharing afternoon tea than bandaging wounds and offering painkillers. More surreal than Wonderland. 

“So Tim,” Alfred says as he settles clasped hands loosely over crossed knees. The bloodstained handkerchief peeks from the pocket of his waistcoat. “You are a very competent nurse.”

The sparkle in the mans eyes is disconcerting. Tim abruptly wonders if this is how fish feel when a shiny lure appears in front of them, fascinating and dangerous but impossible to look away from. Nature documentaries did not prepare him for this. 

He swallows. 

“Thank you.”

“Is your family home?” Is the next question. Tim wonders if he should feel as attacked as he does or if its an overreaction. 

“Um. Not… at the moment.”

Alfred very deliberately sips water and smiles.

“Oh?”

Tim is abruptly aware of the improperly washed dishes piled on a towel by the sink, the pale smudge of smoke over the stove and the single sticky handprint on the handle of the refrigerator. His culinary endeavors over the last few days had ended in failure more often than not and the evidence was spread everywhere. Why on earth had he decided the kitchen was a good idea?

“They are on a business trip at the moment but our housekeeper should be back soon,” he says hastily and instantly realizes it was a mistake. 

Alfred’s lips tilt just a bit higher, eyes sparkling just a bit brighter and Tim suddenly feels as though he swallowed down the hook without realizing it. 

“And what is your housekeepers name? I am acquainted with most of the staff in this neighborhood, perhaps I know them.”

“Lidia,” Tim mutters. “She’s new.”

New and not present for the past few weeks. But Alfred did not need to know that.

The sweat that had begun to dry was now renewed under Alfred’s steady regard. Tim plucked at the front of his shirt, sweat sticky and revolting as it pasted the cotton to his chest. He felt sick, tight and trapped in clammy skin, mouth sticky and rough. His vision blurred for a single frightening second. 

“Tim,” Alfred says softly, “how old are you?”

“Nine,” Tim replies to his own lap. Swallowing feels like choking and holding back sound like drowning. There’s a horrible weight in his chest, behind eyes that throb and burn. Something terrible is about to happen. He waits for the inevitable in smothering dread.

“Did you know Wayne Manor has its own generator?” Alfred asks lightly and apropos of nothing.

Tim blinks stupidly. 

“Several in fact, of different models and design.” The butler laughs softly, tilting his head. “Mister Wayne likes to test the products from his company at home. At times like these it comes in handy, as we have no need to worry about power outages. And,” a blue eye winks, “we enjoy the benefits of air conditioning.”

The dread is shunted aside by an intense and ridiculous wave of longing and without meaning to Tim glances at the quiet vents in the ceiling. Generators are such a good idea, why did he never think of them? He sighs a little, feeling the ache of heat exhaustion, the muggy headedness of dehydration and the gross sensation of sweat beading over every inch of skin become exponentially stronger. He sighs wistfully.

“That sounds nice.”

“It is very pleasant. It makes working in the kitchen much easier. Just this morning I made a variety of citrus inspired cream pies that are chilling even now.”

Tim likes citrus. And sugar. And things that are chilled. It makes tonights dinner of caviar crackers and canned corn even less appealing in comparison. Thankfully his stomach is still too sore from the mornings heat inspired vomiting to growl audibly, though it does clench feebly. 

“That sounds nice,” he repeats dumbly.

Alfred claps suddenly and Tim very nearly falls off the stool in surprise. 

“Ah! As thanks for your assistance today perhaps you would join me for dinner at the Manor? You're housekeeper is of course invited as well.”

On the surface this does not appear to be the terrible thing Tim was expecting. Even on closer inspection it does not seem to hold any sort of traps. Though it was possible he was blinded by the thought of air conditioning and chilled desserts. 

“Dinner?” He echoes.

“Indeed. You helped me a great deal and I would not feel right not repaying you in some small way.” Alfred’s face is warm and guileless. 

“No, no, its fine. It was nothing.” A blush Tim doesn't understand makes everything even more horribly hot. 

“Nonsense! You were very gracious. Please, I would appreciate you indulging my attempt to thank you.”  
Was Tim being maneuvered? He felt very maneuvered and squinted just a little at Alfred, wondering when it had happened. 

The worst thing was that he did want to accept. Real food, cool air and even company that wasn't mean edged and miserable from heat was unbelievably tempting. He should not accept. It was a terrible idea that would have consequences Tim couldn't even begin to guess at. 

“Yes,” he said.

Alfred proceeded to give very detailed directions to the Manor, as well as offering to pick Tim up himself. Tim frantically turned down the offer; surely driving after receiving a head wound was dangerous? In fact, why was he even going to bother the poor man? While he desperately thought of a way to back out of the invitation Alfred’s phone chimed. The car service had arrived and Tim was suddenly out of time.

To cap the surreal day the driver was someone recognizable and they stared at one another for a moment.

“Oh.” Scratching his head beneath the uniform cap he wore, the driver grinned a little uncertainly. “I thought the address was familiar, but the name threw me off. Am I driving you today, Mister Drake?”

Tim smiled stiffly. “Not today, Jeremy. Have the picketers moved on, then?”

Jeremy huffed and grinned. “Not even a little.”

He straightened abruptly upon noticing Alfred standing off to the side, watching the interplay with a bemused smile. The mans cheeks flushed slightly and he straightened. 

“Are you the client then? Mister Pennyworth?”

“Indeed. If you would kindly wait just a moment while I collect some things from the car?”

“Sure. Uh, certainly. Do you need a hand?”

“No no,” Alfred waved a hand. “I shall be back directly.”

Jeremy and Tim watched the butler stride down the sidewalk and slide into the no longer smoking car.

“So…” Jeremy mumbled, hooking his thumbs into the front pockets of his black slacks. Sweating was already beading along his upper lip. “Hows classes?”

“They’re going well. Yours?”

“Not good. The dorms keep losing power and I have a desktop.” With a wry quirk of his brow and scoffing laugh, Jeremy turned his eyes down to Tim. “For future reference, do not get a computer without batteries.”

Tim couldn't hold back a snicker. “Thats what you get for deciding a PC was better for gaming.”

“I knooooow,” Jeremy groaned, tipping his head back and shutting his eyes as though in pain. “I know. But thinking ahead is not my strong point, dude.”

Tim just laughs. 

Jeremy was one of the few people at the university he knew by name. He took the same computer course as Tim, but they hadn't spoken until he was assigned as a driver. Sometime after the first few rides he had become comfortable enough to break his professional conduct and complain about classes, student living conditions and how horribly unjust the life of a part time chauffeur was. 

Tim was always fascinated while listening. 

Then Alfred came back, arms full of paper packages and a glossy black bag stuffed with pale lavender tissue paper. The shimmering silver script across the front read Bete Noire which Tim was uncomfortably aware was a high end lingerie and lovers boutique. He determinedly decided not to think on it.

“Just let me stow them in the trunk sir,” Jeremy said cheerfully, professional mask firmly in place. 

“Thank you,” Alfred said politely, and while the driver was occupied walked to Tim. “I look forward to seeing you this evening, Tim. And once again, thank you for your help.”

Tim could only nod, smiling tightly. And even though it made him feel foolish he waved a little as the car pulled away. Then he went back into the tomb like silence of the house and very quietly panicked. 

In the four hours before arriving at the Manor Tim realizes he has never regretted an impulsive decision more. While taking a cold shower and scrubbing hard enough to hurt, the panic gives way to dismay. The logistics of the evening were starting to weigh on him. Walking the twelve miles uphill to the Manor would be more than doable in cooler weather, but not only would it be potentially dangerous now considering how quickly he would have to move to get there in time, the decision to walk would surely be remarked on. 

Taking a taxi was the only real option, he decides while toweling dry, folding the used towel carefully in order to use it again, as the washing machine had suffered a terrible accident a week ago (which might have been Tim’s fault. Possibly.) and he needed to preserve his resources. 

But a taxi posed its own problems, he thought worriedly as he booked one on his phone. Not only was there a possibility it would be late or even not come at all, he had very little in the way of cash to pay for it. He had budgeted what little money he had left and there was only enough for bus fare and a few meals at the university for the remainder of the month, until his allowance was deposited in his personal account. 

Carefully selecting a shirt and trousers and worrying over whether a tie was appropriate for a meal with a family butler, he thought over the options. 

There was one left but it was nerve wracking merely to consider. However it was turning into the only option he had left. If he did not want to starve or be stranded then he needed money, and the only money available was in the safe he was not technically supposed to know about. 

Rehanging a dozen rejected ties and settling on a lightweight blazer instead, Tim carefully built up his nerve. 

The safe was behind a shelf of low value hardcovers in the library. A new model of shiny steel and black enamel it was intimidating in appearance. His lip was chewed nearly raw by the time the books were removed and stacked carefully on the floor. 

He stared at the safe, shifting from foot to foot. Surely this was the best option? A few bills to pay for the taxi, perhaps a twenty to help tide him over for the month. When his allowance came through he could budget tighter and put back the money. 

He could just not go.

That thought, sensible as it was, made something twist in his chest. Pressing a palm against the hurt of it, he hunched inward. Was going to the Manor worth the risk? Logically it wasn’t. 

And yet… 

It took two tries to find the right combination, the date of a dig on the border of the Amazon rainforest his father had funded and found some of the greatest artifacts of his career. 

The money burned his fingertips like acid as he counted it, heart pounding and flipping like an acrobat behind too tight lungs. Even scaling fire escapes and watching crimes in the dead of night had never made him so sick with adrenaline. 

The sound of the safe slamming shut was as final as a death knoll but the finality let him breath. It was done and there was no taking it back now. The books seemed heavier when he put them back in exacting order. 

Then there was only the waiting. He stood at the door, watching through the narrow glass windows beside it until the taxi pulled up. The driver barely spared him a glance out of exhaustion reddened eyes, only a twitch of a bushy brow hinting at surprise when he offered the Manors address. The cab smelt of dirty humans, smoke and industrial cleaner and Tim warred with nausea the entire drive. 

Tim paid and watched the taxi roll away, leaving him on a massive front drive with the gothic beast that was Wayne Manor hulking behind him. He spent a moment staring at it and regretting the necessity of his own existence before sucking in a bracing breath and following the last of Alfred’s instructions, circling the Manor until he reached the south facing side. 

A walled garden with an open gate held a large but plain brick patio. Wilted moss clung to the shadowed places and old wooden benches. A massive grill and outdoor brick oven sat beneath a sloping roof that dripped with wisteria, faded from the heat but impossibly fragrant. As he picked his way warily through the garden to the massive french doors, Tim was surprised to see that most of the plants were vegetables. There were even fat, nearly ripened tomatoes as big as a mans fist weighing down vines. 

Tim thought again of Wonderland as he knocked hesitantly on the doors. 

It opened almost immediately and Alfred beamed at him. The man had changed into soft grey slacks, another waistcoat and wore a black apron. The bandage was still in place and unchanged.

Tim barely noticed, too busy basking in the wave of cool air from the open door.

“Tim, just on time. Please do come in.”

“Thank you.” After vigorously wiping his feet on the mat, Tim edged inside and looked around with blank awe. 

The kitchen was massive, all golden light, sleek counters and warm white cabinetry. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling and something bubbled on the stove, spewing steam that smelled unbearably delicious. 

“Would you like something to drink? There is water, sweet tea, fresh lemonade, sodas.” Alfred swept a glance up and down Tim’s heat rumpled frame. “Some chocolate milk, perhaps?”

Why was everything Alfred said somehow geared precisely towards Tim’s weaknesses? Air conditioning, chilled desserts and a full meal, and now chocolate milk, a treat he had not managed to get his hands on in over a year. He wondered uncomfortably if Alfred was meta-human; it would certainly explain a lot.

“Chocolate milk would be nice,” he admitted quietly. 

Alfred smiled as though privy to an amusing secret and gestured at the stools lined up beneath the lip of the massive island. “Have a seat.”

Tim did. The stool was tall and padded and significantly more comfortable than it looked. 

“Your housekeeper could not make it?” Alfred asked lightly as he placed a very large glass in front of Tim, the surface slightly frothy and a stripped bendy straw resting against the rim. It looked like decadence and Tim just sat admiring it for a long moment. 

“I’m sorry. She had other engagements.” Which had the virtue of being true, even if Tim had no earthly idea what said engagements consisted of. 

The drink tasted even better than it looked. Tim could officially die happy, at this very moment, without regrets. 

“Another time, then. As it stands I am very happy with your companionship.”

Another confusing, baseless blush had Tim ducking his head, fiddling with the straw. He fell gratefully onto manners for a response. “Thank you for having me.”

“I am making focaccia and tomato bisque, as well as a fresh salad. Does that sound good?”

It sounded like a meal suited for gods. Tim attempted to sound as serenely at ease as Alfred, who was gliding about the kitchen with brisk grace. “It sounds delicious.”

Under the cover of the island Tim pressed a fist tightly against his stomach, crushing it before it had the chance to growl. 

“I enjoy cooking to music. Do you have any preferences?” Alfred glanced over his shoulder form where he stood before a speaker system set directly into the wall, beside what appeared to be a legitimate dumbwaiter. 

“No.”

As a strange mix of jazz and classical floated softly from unseen speakers, Tim recalled his conversation with Jason and smiled slightly. Watching the man he could easy picture him dancing, a image that should have been incongruous but was instead perfectly natural. 

And Alfred was easy to watch. Setting the pot on the stove to a low simmer, vanishing briefly into a dim pantry only to return with a bowl of risen dough, he moved with a comfortable, mesmerizing rhythm. 

Tim sipped his drink quietly, watching with interest as Alfred manipulated the dough and stretched it on a pan, only to cover it with a cloth and set it aside to rise again. He washed his hands, pulled out ingredients for a salad and paused long enough to top off Tim’s glass before assembling a salad. 

It was all done very quietly, very smoothly. Tim found himself lulled into a sleepy haze. He had anticipated the evening being an uncomfortable trial. With anyone else there would have been conversation, choreographed talking for the sake of talking. Instead this was the most at ease Tim had ever been with another human being and he didn't even care enough to analyze that fact. 

Alfred slipped the salad into the refrigerator and turned back to the dough, brushing a thin layer of oil over it and poking little divots into it with his fingertips. 

“Are there any toppings you would prefer?”

Tim cocked his head, meeting Alfred’s warm eyes.

“What do you usually put on it?”

“Sundried tomatoes and basil are a favorite of mine. However anything can be added.”

Tim stared at the gleaming dough and nodded. “That sounds really nice.”

Alfred merely smiled and angled the pan so Tim could better watch him adding the toppings. 

Soon they were both seated on stools, Alfred sipping a glass of water with floating mint leaves and Tim comfortably sipping at his milk. 

“Do you always cook?” He asked.

“Yes, generally. During events I oversee caterers but otherwise I am lord and master of the kitchen.” The smile on his face was very nearly a smirk and Tim ducked to hide a grin.

“I like your kitchen. Its beautiful.”

“Thank you. And who cooks in your house? Parents, housekeeper?”

A little of the easy relaxation ebbs away and Tim shrugs. “The housekeeper. Meals are delivered every week and only need to be assembled.”

“How streamlined.” Though there was absolutely no judgement in his tone Tim still felt slightly awkward.

“And what is your favorite meal?”

And Tim was stumped. He had never really thought about food; it was what it was and his opinions had no bearing on it. The prepackaged sandwiches at the university cafeteria were perhaps what he liked most at the moment, but even that Tim could take or leave. He floundered for a response before blurting 

“My meals are designed by a nutritionist. They’re all nice.”

Alfred blinked at him, for the first time appearing taken aback. “A nutritionist?”

Tim decided to focus on the sleek copper utensil hanging above the island, golden light sparking off the curves and sweeping handles. “Yes. She works with my pediatrician to make a plan every six months. We’re trying a vegetarian diet now.”

Or at least they were, before the housekeeper left and the deliveries stopped. 

Alfred looks thoughtfully at the soup simmering on the stove, the glow through the glass door of the oven. Tim followed the glance and realized this meal was more or less vegetarian. 

“And do you like it?”

Tim considered the question. Honestly, it had never occurred to him to have much of an opinion either way. He supposed he could have done with less acidic veggies that were hard to digest. He shrugs a little. “I don’t care for all the raw vegetables, I suppose.”

“Most children don’t,” Alfred said agreeably, and then busied himself with removing the focaccia and ladling out bowls of soup. 

It was only halfway through demolishing a second helping that Tim realized he genuinely couldn't remember that last time he’d eaten a meal next to another person. Slowing a little, Tim eyed the butler from the corner of his eye. 

Alfred has settled next to him with a single stool still between them. He ate with efficient movements and very correct posture. Tim realized he had drooped and subtly corrected it. 

The meal was spent mostly in silence, another oddity. Eating with other people had always been for the purpose of socializing, first and foremost. A type of theater with food and utensils for props and diners for actors. Tim had certainly never managed to learn the skill of eating a full course without losing focus. This, sitting in near silence with Alfred, was much easier. 

And multiple servings, a luxury he had rarely experienced, was even nicer. 

“Thank you for inviting me.” 

Tim had already said it but this time it was absolutely sincere. In all honesty he had agreed mostly to see the manor up close, maybe find some clues about Batmans doings. Now he found he was perfectly content to stay in this one room, leaving mysteries alone for once. 

Alfred smiled at him. It was a smaller expression than his previous Mona Lisa smirks, though just as genuine. Tim found himself turning back to the soup to avoid facing it. 

“Thank you for coming. I admit it is somewhat lonely in the house when Master Bruce and Jason are gone. It was a pleasure to have company.”

Well, Tim thought as he swirled bisque with his spoon, he didn't know what to say to that.

After eating what felt like his own body weight in bread Tim felt unpleasantly full with not a single centimeter of spare space left. He could honestly say he had never felt that way before, including at Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations. It made him sleepy.

Alfred washed the dishes as Tim watched, confused at the fact the butler was doing so in the sink rather than the perfectly functional dish washer. But the sounds were nice. The gentle slosh of water, the click of dishes set in the rack, the soft music that had transitioned to something even slower and deeper toned. 

It was nice…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter in which a whole lot of nothing happens. But I obey Alfred, as all sensible people should. Hope you enjoyed.   
> Stay safe, have fun! Eat vegetables!  
> (And FYI? Focaccia is the greatest thing. Its cheat bread for the culinaryily un-inclined)


	3. Chapter 3

“How many times do I have to say no!”

Tim hit the ground with a startled yelp, elbows catching hard against tiles, vision muzzy and grey from changing position so quickly. A stool clattered after him, just barely missing him. 

He had fallen asleep, he realized, struggling through the adrenaline and sleep fog as to why that felt like a bad thing. It usually wasn’t. As long as his parents weren't home he slept wherever felt best and half the time that was not a bed. 

But this wasn't home. He scrubbed a hand over into gummy eyes. This was the manor and there was suddenly shouting. Was it his fault?

“Are you alright?” Alfred crouched beside him without a hint of the creaking and crackling most adults suffered. It was an odd thing to focus on, but better than the yelling that was drawing closer. 

“I said I didn't want to! Why won’t you listen?!”

“This is for the best.”

“Says you!”

A hand cupping the back of his head startled Tim from staring in the direction of the approaching argument. 

“Tim,” Alfred said quietly, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” If etiquette lessons were good for anything it was providing stock responses. Tim was grateful. 

One voice was becoming shriller, the other deeper and both were coming closer. Alfred snagged his attention before it could wander completely. 

“Did you hit your head when you fell? Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Alfred very carefully maneuvered the both of them to their feet, the motion carrying through to bring the stool up with them and deposit Tim on it. It was done so smoothly and quickly Tim wasn't sure how it had happened at all. Alfred smiled at him. 

“Please wait here.”

“FUCK YOU, BRUCE!” Comes a sharp howl and Tim smothers the urge to jump beneath rigid stillness. 

Then the far door swung open and cracked against the wall and Tim couldn't help but twitch a little. 

“Master Jason,” Alfred snaps sharply.

Jason looks even bigger than last time, Tim notes idly. Wearing a suit again but seeming even less happier about, tie gone, shirt unbuttoned nearly halfway, jacket rumpled and hanging crooked. His hair is wild and face red, shiny with sweat. 

Then Bruce Wayne looms in behind him, even larger. His suit is immaculate but his hair is also out of place, cheeks slashed with color and mouth a tight line. 

Jason squints from the doorway, moving just enough to block easy passage and trap Bruce behind him. Tim is certain that move was completely deliberate, no matter how much he appears invested in Tim and Alfred. 

“Who’s the kid?”

“Who are the ill mannered brutes slamming into my kitchen like common thugs?” Alfred replied icily.

Despite not moving anyway they both freeze. 

“Our apologies,” Bruce says smoothly and smiling his brilliant press smile, the grim expression of before sloughing away like a sandcastle at high tide. “Hello, kid. My name is Bruce and this,” he clapped a hand to Jason’s shoulder, who stiffened but waved gamely, “is Jason. My son.”

Because Tim is watching carefully he sees a burst of something in Jason’s eyes, an emotion too complex for Tim to understand no matter how many studies and facial cue cards he reads. 

“Hi.” Jason says.

“Hello. My name is Timothy Drake. I’m sorry for the imposition.”

Bruce’s eyebrows twitched. “The Drakes? Are they here, I should go say hi.”

Despite himself Tim relaxes a little. This is familiar. Being treated like a child, spoken down to. Easy and familiar and comforting for all it makes his stomach clench. 

He smiles widely, showing the gap of a missing tooth, giving the illusion his cheeks are fuller than they are. “No. Just me. Sorry, mister Wayne!”

He can see Jason staring at him with narrowed eyes, clearly on the verge of recognizing him and not quite buying what Tim is selling. Unlike Bruce, who just smiles a little wider and with less effort to be sincere. 

“Thats too bad. Will you tell them hello for me?”

“Of course, mister Wayne.” He cocks his head, smiles a little smaller and shrugs, abruptly aware of Alfred’s hand still on his shoulder. Better to ignore that for now. “I should probably go home, actually.”

“Do you need a ride?” 

It would be nice, Tim admitted to himself, but there was no way he wanted to be in a car with Bruce Wayne right now and possibly ever. “No thank you.”

“Pomeranian Tim?” Jason said in a tone of surprise. 

And just like that the easy childlike charm melts into a frown that Tim levels at the older boy before he can smother the offense back down. “I am not small.”

Jason grins. It spreads over his face slowly, like dye diffusing through water and then he laughs, hand slapping once against his thigh before pointing. 

“Seriously? Have you grown at all since then? It doesn't look like it.”

“I am three inches taller,” Tim lies regally. Two and a half is close enough, after all. It was a good growth spurt while it lasted, even if it still left him the smallest person in his age group, and he’s proud of it.

Jason swaggers into the kitchen and flops into a nearby stool, tipping it onto one leg and managing to balance without effort. “Nope. Don’t believe it. I swear you look even smaller.”

“Perception is informed by intelligence,” Tim muses sweetly. 

Jason laughs and slams the stool back on all legs. His green-blue eyes narrow with the force of his smile. “Nice one.”

“I agree,” Alfred says and finally removes his hand. 

Tim resists the urge to shrug away the residual warmth and tries not to look at Bruce. He fails, of course, and finds the man studying him with sharp eyes. 

Tim almost feels bad. He had just conned Batman. He had just as good as lied to his own hero. Hunching a little he turned his attention firmly on Jason. 

“So what are you doing here?” Jason props on elbow on the island and cocks a brow. 

“I was invited for dinner.” He risks a sideways flicker of a glance at Alfred, who had drawn Bruce to a corner of the kitchen, and adds quietly. “It was really nice.”

“Alfred is literally the best cook. How’d you meet?”

“We ran into each other.”

“Were you lost again?”

Tim sighs. “I wasn't lost last time.”

“Timothy helped me today,” Alfred interjects. He taps the bandage still taped to his forehead. 

Tim is unprepared for the way Jason’s face drains of color, pupils constricting to almost nothing. “What happened? Are you okay? Did somebody—“

“An accident, nothing more,” Alfred declares briskly. “The car suffered far more than I.”

Tim swallows as both Bruce and Jason level him with a more assessing stare and Alfred glides serenely away to the sink. 

Bruce’s face has settled into a blandly pleasant mask. At some point the ruffled hair had been smoothed back and his cuffs shaken out. He looks so much younger this way, dressed to dazzle and all the hard edges of Batman scraped away. Its almost featureless and Tim has a hard time looking at him. 

Dropping off the stool Tim casually walks around the island, inspecting the lights overhead and pausing to admire a the knob of a cabinet. Jason wheezes a little. 

“We’re indebted to you Timothy,” Bruce says warmly. It sends little fingers of unease skittering up Tim’s spine. “Alfred is family, after all.”

“I only let him come in out of the sun,” Tim mutters and does not look up. 

“How modest,” Alfred cheerily interjects. Tim restrains himself from shushing the man; indebted to him or not, there were boundaries both children and guests were unable to cross. “He is a competent nurse.”

“So I see.” Bruce sounds amused, Jason is still wheezing intermittently and Tim wants to leave. 

“It was a lovely dinner, thank you Mr Pennyworth, but I really should be getting home now.”

“Is someone coming to pick you up?” 

Tim finally looks at Bruce. Both of their smiles are equally fake but neither are pretending they’re anything else. Its as close to honest as either is willing to get. “No.”

“I didn't notice anyone in the drive,” Bruce says musingly.

“Well, no one is waiting for me.” And because it seems there is no other choice Tim puffs up and gestures airily. “I was planning to call a taxi but its much cooler now. A walk would be nice.”

Bruce’s eyebrows rise. Its impressive really. They move slowly and smoothly and inexorably upwards before his teeth flash in a expensively perfect smile. Tim wonders how many of his teeth are fake, considering what he does at night. 

“So you do need a ride. If I remember correctly the Drakes house is several miles away.”

“I’m very athletic.” Tim decides not to flex. It would probably make the statement harder to believe. “It would be invigorating.”

“Oh God,” Jason says from his position facedown on the island. He sounds on the verge of tears. 

Tim ignores him for the moment.

“I’m sure it would be, for the first mile or so. And its dark out. Whether or not you can do it is less important than whether you should. Bad things could happen, so maybe I should just drive you.” 

Bruce is taking Tim more seriously now, but he clearly considers the matter over. Tim does not. Batman, Bruce or Wayne or any of those persona’s are not someone Tim want’s to take home where all the windows are dark, the driveway is coated in dust and the lawn is overgrown. It was bad enough Alfred, a neutral and relatively nonthreatening person, knew. Batman was anything but nonthreatening. 

Widening his eyes and clasping his hand loosely behind his back, Tim gazes placidly upwards.

“But mister Wayne, I’m not supposed to get in the car with strangers.”

Jason moans.

In the end Tim calls a taxi and waits in the foyer with Jason. Somewhere along the long trek to the front of the house Jason had lost his good humor and was simply standing quietly, looking blankly out the glazed glass window. Tim lurked close to a potted fern several times his size and watched the older boy from the corner of his eye. 

Jason looked… tired. Worn to roughness, like a callus. The shadows beneath his eyes were peeking through smearing concealer and yellowed bruises stippled his knuckles. 

Tim is desperately curious about the argument while simultaneously wanting to know nothing about it. He’s smart enough to know learning what it was about would just cause anxiety and disappointment, but also is nosy enough to want to know anyway. It takes biting his tongue to keep the questions from slipping out. 

“So why can’t your parents pick you up?”

The question pops in the air like a bubble and Tim jumps, turning the motion into a shrug he hopes looks genuine. 

“They’re out of town right now. I, uh, lied to Mr Pennyworth when I said otherwise. I didn't know him then.”

Jason snorts and slides a sly green-grey glance at him. 

“And still thought it was a good idea to accept a dinner invitation? He could have been anyone, could of been a kidnapper for all you knew.”

Tim resists the urge to scowl and instead smiles wider. Jason’s points are good ones, but not anything Tim hadn't already thought of and discarded. And he doesn't want to think about the stupid risk he had taken tonight, leaving home without a single soul knowing why or where he went. 

“Mr Pennyworth? He’s very trustworthy. And I came because you told me about him, remember?”

Jason blinks. “Uh. I did?”

“Yes.” Tim nods decisively and edges closer to the window, squinting through it at the gloomy driveway. Really, Mr Wayne was a multibillionaire. He could afford better outdoor lighting. “You said he was a good dancer, and a good cook. And awesome.”

Shifting from foot to foot, Jason scrubs a hand through messy hair and frowns. He looks confused, which confuses Tim in turn and they stare blankly at one another for nearly a minute in baffled silence. 

“Really?”

Tim huffs. “I just said so. Were you really that drunk that you don’t rememb—-“

“Shhshshsh!” Jason hisses and leaps over to slap a hand over Tim’s mouth. “Shhhh! Do you want me to get murdered? Cause squealing like that is how people get other people murdered, understand?”

Lifting an unimpressed eyebrow, Tim stares haughtily over the hand covering the lower half of his face and waits until Jason awkwardly pulls it away. 

“And I wasn't drunk at all. God damn, kid.”

“Of course not, Jason.” Tim straightens his blazer and sniffs like a society matron.

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose, but his mouth quirks a little, something like a smile. “Look. Just… did you say anything to Alfred?” 

“Of course not. I’m not stupid or a tattletale,” (“Tattletale?” Jason mumbles under his breath and there is definitely a smile, which Tim regally ignores.) “so your secret is safe with me.”

“Appreciate it.”

Outside a taxi glides to a stop. 

Suddenly uncertain, Tim shuffles and glances between Jason and the door before thrusting out a hand. “Sorry for dropping in so unexpectedly.”

Giving his hand a single pump and opening the door, Jason hums quietly. 

“No problem. Sorry about the screaming.”

Oh God, Tim wants to know. He resolutely bites his lip and marches down the steps, where the driver is hovering nervously. 

He stops halfway down to look back. 

“Please tell Mr Pennyworth thank you for dinner?” He picks at his cuff before catching himself and tucking hands safely away in his pockets. “It was. It was really nice.”

“Sure kid. Be careful getting home, yeah?”

“I will. Goodnight Jason.”

“Night kid.”

Despite sternly telling himself not to, Tim peeks back as they drive away. Jason is still on the steps and stays there until the car rounds a corner and fades from sight. 

The next morning, after a brief and tragically uneventful patrol, Jason stumbled into the kitchen to a spread of fresh waffles, thick cut bacon and assorted berries topped with whipped cream. 

Standing within touching distance of what is arguably the breakfast of gods, Jason nonetheless keeps his hands to himself and stares suspiciously at Alfred’s back, where he is pretending to be innocuous while doing dishes.

“Whats with the bribe food?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Master Jason.”

“No, seriously, this is a carb-fest.” A horrible thought occurs and Jason backpedals. Subtly, because he has training, damn it. “Is this about joining that fu— freaking kids club? Did Bruce put you up to this?”

The sense of betrayal that Alfred, of all people, is setting aside neutrality is set to rest when the man pauses to gaze judgmentally over his shoulder. Jason swallows. 

“Sorry.”

“That is between you and Master Bruce, and is definitely your decision in the end.” A wet pop of a plug being pulled from the sink is followed by the soft swiffing of water circling the drain. Alfred pats his hands dry and pointedly takes a seat before the platter of softly steaming waffles, waiting until Jason sheepishly follows suit. “I assure you there is no ulterior motive to this breakfast.”

Jason is not blushing. He doesn't blush on principle. Its just the heat, thats all. Spooning berries onto a gloriously fluffy waffle he mutters his thanks.

“However I did mean to speak to you regarding young Timothy.”

“Yeah? I don’t have anything to tell you, really. I only met the kid once, like a year ago.”

Alfred hums thoughtfully and smiles just a little too sweetly. “You made a strong impression regardless. He said you were very kind.”

Jason chokes on a mouthful of deliciousness. As he struggles not to die he wonders whether to be more horrified at Alfred’s impeccably timed acts of trolling or the fact that someone thinks he’s kind. Christ.

“What?” He manages weakly, once free of the looming specter of death by waffle.

“He was quite adamant about it, despite not providing much in the way of detail. So what act of kindness did you perform, Master Jason?”

I drank and smoked in his presence, Jason thinks wildly. I swore at him while tipsy and fed him stolen food.

“I gave him my jacket,” Jason blurted desperately. 

Alfred smiles like a cat, soft and with his eyes closing into downturned crescents. God, the man is terrifying. “That was kind of you. Did you meet his parents?”

“No.” 

Truthfully, Jason had put the meeting out of his mind almost immediately after the fact. He’d never thought of it again, never considered it anything out of the ordinary. Looking back, he remembered being mildly curious and a little concerned at a kid wandering alone. But that was it because, hey, rich people were just like that.

“Honestly, we were just bored and hiding from the crowd, thats all.”

But he remembered how tiny the kid was then. Still was now, actually. What had they talked about? Why would the kid remember him at all, much less with such rose colored tinting going on?

He chewed an overly ambitious but oh so good mouthful of waffled and thought. 

“So what did you make of him?” He asked after swallowing (he had only needed to suffer the blunt end of a spoon wielded by a master once to learn that lesson).

Alfred hummed and tapped a fingertip gently against the counter. 

“A very polite young man. A very lonely one.”

And yeah, Jason could see that. A kid didn’t just charge off into the wild blue yonder if he and people around to keep him occupied. 

“It was nice of him. Y’know. To do what he did.”

“Indeed it was. It is always to someones credit to assist the elderly in times of distress.”

Jason spit out a bray of laughter and a few crumbs of masticated dough. “Shit! Don’t do that, damn.”

Alfred flicked the tip of his ear. “Do not swear in my kitchen, Master Jason.”

“Right, sorry.” Hmph. Like it was his fault, when Alfred was always throwing out comments like that at the most perfectly timed moment to achieve a dramatic reaction. He was onto the old man and always had been. 

The waffles were good, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, apologies for the slightly short chapter.
> 
> So. I actually, legitimately need some advice here.   
> I think I mentioned before that I wrote this a few years ago and its been sitting in my hardrive. It was about 50,000 words worth but not finished when I lost interest and didn't look at it again until just these last two months. I'd forgotten most of what I had written. As a result, it didn't occur to me that this might not be the right climate to post it in.   
> One of the next and most vital arcs includes King Snake. This is an important spoiler because, if any of you have read the comics, he is involved with revitalizing research into biological weapons, namely a Nazi virus. It DOES NOT get completed in my story (another spoiler that I feel is necessary) but some people do die of the virus.  
> With a pandemic going around I don't know if the addition of a deliberately created one in my story is appropriate. This is a scary time. I've been scared and I'm sure most everyone else has been as well, to some degree or another.   
> As such, I am considering scrapping the story. I have no idea what to do and have been waffling for the past two weeks when I realized what a dunce I had been not to consider it before I posted anything.   
> So I would greatly, greatly appreciate some advice here. Don't feel pressured though! Just, if you have an opinion one way or the other, I would appreciate hearing it because I can't make a decision myself. I tried.   
> So. Sorry for the downer this no doubt is. I can easily slap together a happy ending after the next chapter before any arcs begin and this story would be more or less completed.
> 
> Stay safe, have fun! Sorry!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of brief encounters

Tim survived the next week of unrelenting heat through sheer force of will. God, he would not do well in a desert environment. He would die very quickly and probably gratefully, body a dried husk in the wasteland. 

But the heat broke eventually and receded into back to two digits for the first time in almost a month. Lidia returned, bringing with her the emergence of daily meals and clean laundry and consistent transportation. It was honestly a little surprising just how relieved he was to have another human being, especially an adult payed to keep him alive, living in the same space. 

On the whole things were much better and Tim had two weeks of summer vacation left. The only blight on his contented state was the lack of gymnastics. Coach Namahari had taken one look at his bandaged, swollen left arm and banned him from the studio for at least a week and told him in no uncertain terms she would not allow him back until he had a doctors note proving his good health.

Tim could admit to being slightly bitter. It wasn't as though he absolutely needed use of his arm. He had a second one and two perfectly functional, if bruised, legs. He scowled unhappily at his arm, taking in the two splinted fingers he had badly jammed during an… accidental descent from a fire escape. It was now too dangerous to surveil the city at night when he was unable to take to the roofs, and having his gymnastics privileges cut off was a frustrating, bitter pill to swallow. 

So, at loose ends one hot but not excruciating sunday, Tim sat in the living room, laptop perched on up drawn knees and screen all but six inches from his nose. He was deeply involved in crafting an analysis program, one he was hoping to perfect by the end of the year and install in his current net of similar programs that monitored the news feeds, police band and a few citizen watch radio bands that had the habit of seeing…. interesting things at night. It had proved useful during Tim’s night time runs. 

He was so involved in the program that the first ring of the doorbell didn't register. Even the second was dismissed until on the third he finally remembered Lidia was gone for the afternoon and there was no one else able to answer the door. 

He scrambled through shutting down the program and spun in a mildly panicked circle, looking for a place to stash the computer. It had a few too many suspicious things in it to fall into the wrong hands. 

As the visitor began to play an ill-conceived rendition of Shave and a Haircut via doorbell, Tim thrust the computer under the couch cushions in desperation, kicking the cord under the couch before sprinting to the door. 

“I’m so sorry, I didn't hear—“

Tim didn't know what he had been expecting to find on the other side of the door but Dick Grayson-Wayne had not even been in vague consideration. 

Tim had not seen him the flesh, even from a distance, in over a year. The spare two yard distance seemed minuscule and Tim jolted at the foggy memory of a circus, the snapping flash of a photograph and three acrobats smelling of sweat and sparkling with sequins pressing close around him. The dog eared, low quality photo was sitting up in his room, hidden in the tiny space he had cut into the inside wall of his closet above the door. 

It was surreal and unnerving to have the little boy depicted in that picture standing on Tim’s porch, broad and mature but with the same blindingly enthusiastic grin. 

“Hi,” Dick Grayson said. 

The meaning of the resounding thud took a moment to sink in.

Oh God. Oh God, Tim had slammed the door in the face of Dick Grayson. He had slammed the door on Nightwing. Oh God.

Made foggy by the frosted glass, Dick’s tanned face peered through the window. He hesitated for a second and then rapped gently on the glass. 

Thankfully the horror of his own action was so immense Tim’s ability to process it shut down in pure self defense. Like a rebooted computer he fell back onto base programming and opened the door with a pleasant smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says placidly. “There was a wasp.”

“Right.” Dick cocked his head, smile a little crooked and eyes practically broadcasting every microgram of disbelief he could muster. “Better safe than sorry, in that case?”

“I agree. Can I help you? My parents aren't home right now.”

With a doglike, full body shake Dick straightened from his sideways stoop, grin settling back into place. 

“Oh no, I’m here for you actually.”

Tim tells himself that wording is not ominous. 

“I heard what you did for Alfred a few weeks ago and he sent me with some stuff when I said I was coming this way.”

Tim blinks slowly, still too muffled in the thick cushion of shock to feel anything beyond a bland kind of surprise. “Oh?”

“Yup. Here.”

The bag Dick extends is plain brown paper, the white cord handles looped over one finger with an abraded knuckle and purple bruised nail-bed. The rest of his hand was in much the same condition. 

“Thank you.” Tim accepted the bag with a little too much care, hefting it as subtly as possible with both hands. It held several objects of varying size and weight and texture. 

Curiosity was Tim’s lifeblood and its re-emergence was enough to smooth back the panic. Eyes flickering between Dick and the package he took a step back and nodded inside.

“Would you like to come in?”

“That’d be awesome. Thanks.”

Nudging the door shut with his heel, Tim led Dick to the nearest Company Ready room. It was southern facing and almost too bright sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the artifacts and recreations his parents had brought back from several digs. The furniture was sleek and modern and devoid of character.

“In case Mr Pennyworth didn't say, I’m Timothy Drake.” Setting the bag carefully on the coffee table, Tim extended a hand. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dick Grayson.”

Tim tried not to stare at how absurdly dwarfed his hand was in comparison to Dicks. Not merely in size, but in strength. He swears he can feel actual musculature structure in the mans delicate grip.

“Pleasure.”

“Alfred told me all about you. Did you really outfox Bruce?”

Tim’s ardent desire to drop dead returns and his smile becomes sickly. “No?”

Dick gasps. “You did. Oh my God, this’s great! Ah, I wish I’d seen it.”

“There was nothing to see, I assure you,” Tim says stiffly.

Dick grins and Tim is once again assailed by the realization that Dick Grayson (Dick Flying Grayson!) is sitting on his parents couch. 

“Okay, okay, if you say so. Why don’t you take a look at what Alfred sent? I’m dying of curiosity.” Holding thumb and finger an inch apart and peering through the circle they formed, Dick grinned wider. “Just a little.”

“Alright. Can I get you anything first? Something to drink?”

“Nope.”

Well. The conversation stalled in the face of Dick’s expectant expression and Tim acquiesced with a stiff feeling smile. 

Genuine interest soon had him paying full attention to the contents of the bag. A little jar of strawberry marmalade, a tall glass canister hand labeled as ‘Instant Chocolate Milk Mix’, a tin of mixed candy and a card with a hand written recipe printed neatly across the front. 

“Aw,” Dick cooed, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees and chin in his palms. “He sent you a care package.”

Tim nodded woodenly. Unless he was very mistaken, all the items were handmade. Even the candy. 

“Its… its, uh, very nice of him.” 

Nice but extremely confusing. Dinner had been thanks already, right? And why was there another little card at the very bottom of the bag with several phone numbers and an email on it, with the message to ‘call if you ever need anything’? 

“Alfred’s nice like that. Though this is a little much for someone he only met once. Must like you a lot.”

Tim could feel the tingling burn of a blush blooming on his ears and ducked his head. 

“He didn't need to.”

“But he obviously wanted to. And, word to the wise, never ever turn down homemade drink mixes. Ever.”

“I should write a thank you card,” Tim mumbled to himself, turning the tin of candy between his fingers like a puzzle box. His smile shrunk into something softer and genuine without him noticing.

Dick blinked. “Really? I mean, that’d be nice. Alfred’s pretty old fashioned so I know he’d like it.”

Tim looked back at him. 

For a hardened vigilante he looked rather soft. Cheeks still a little full with the very last hints of childhood, dimpled from the force of his smile. His wavy hair was an inch too long and fluffed from the frequent passing of restless fingers. The blue of his eyes was warm as old denim, bleached and softened by age. 

And despite Tim’s earlier panic, he was now almost comfortable in the mans presence. 

“Are you going back to the manor?”

“Yeah, in a bit. Want me to take the card back?”

Tim nodded a little too enthusiastically, jumping to his feet. “Yes please. Wait just a minute. I’ll be right back.”

He walked a bit quicker than manners would allow to the study and dug through the unlocked drawers of the desk until he found a five inch sheet of vellum and a blue pen. He kept an ear cocked to the door out of an irrational fear of something happening, though what that anomalous something could be was hazy at best. 

The note was simple, polite, a near copy of what he had practiced writing so many times during etiquette classes. When it was done Tim found himself frowning at it. He… wanted to write something more natural, that felt sincere, but he was at a loss as to how. And he couldn't keep Dick waiting. 

Folding the note in half and slipping it into a matching envelope Tim hurried back to the sitting room. 

Dick was on his feet and staring at a replica of a death mask, complete with genuine human incisors in the gaping mouth. 

“This isn't real, right?” Dick asked as soon as Tim was in the room, pointing at the mask. He looked unwilling fascinated by it.

“Uh, no. Its a replica.” And Tim chose not to mention the teeth, for the first time wondering if using them was even legal.

“Thank goodness!” Dick eased away from the case with a last suspicious glance before tucking his hands into the pockets of slightly baggy jeans. “I don’t mean to say it looks haunted, but thats the kind of thing that gets haunted. You know?”

Tim didn’t. But it was easy to imagine that Dick was the kind of person to take horror movies to heart. 

“Its not,” Tim assures and holds out the card. 

“If you say so. Hey, when will your parents be back?”

Blinking at the subject change, Tim holds back a frown and replaces it with an airy wave of his hand, only belatedly remembering the splints. “I don’t remember.”

He does. Their itinerary had them returning in two months for a three day stop over before returning to Egypt. Two of those days were set aside for Drake Industry business meetings and a doctors appointment for vaccination boosters. They would miss his junior gymnastic competition by a day. 

“Too bad. Tell them the Wayne’s say hello, yeah?”

“Of course.”

They walked back to the door with Dick blatantly taking in the house, squinting at the occasional artifact. They hovered together at the door, Tim avoiding Dick’s eyes by pretending to look around for encroaching wasps.

“It was nice to meet you, Mr Grayson.”

“Please call me Dick.”

Tim very carefully did not.

“Anyway, I should get going. But hey, if you ever need anything just give the manor a call. Guarantee at least one of us will be there.”

“Of course,” Tim lied, “Thank you.”

Dick cocked his head, eyes unreadable as he rocked on his heels, thumbs hooked in pockets. Smiling in the face of the blatant analysis, Tim hid his stress tight fists behind his back. 

“See you around kid.”

Tim returned Dick’s jaunty wave and watched him all but skip down the walkway and onto the street, whistling what sounded like a pop song.

Once he was out of sight Tim walked numbly back to the living room and dropped onto the sofa, staring blankly at the far wall for several minutes. As the reality of his situation slowly sank in he calmly scooped up a cushion, pressed it securely against his face and squealed into its muffling softness with the full force of his lungs. 

Tim was standing on the steps of Gotham Founders Historic Library, huddling beneath the shelter of his peacoat’s hood and gnawing his lip raw. Rain fell, too light to be a downpour but slightly too heavy to be considered a drizzle. It was also muggy and thick, and an uncomfortable layer of sweat was sticking his uniform shirt to his body in a tacky way. 

He checked his phone again. Almost an hour after his designated pickup time. It was edging towards five o’clock, well after he should have been home. He had sent an email delaying pickup by an hour after getting involved in research.

It was beginning to appear that message had gotten lost in translation somewhere along the line. 

Normally this would not be a problem; if he had the money he would call an Uber or taxi. If he didn’t, he would make his own way on bus and foot. But this time he had no cash and the account his parents deposited his allowance into was almost drained, rendering the card useless. He was loath to use the emergency credit card and have to explain the debacle to his parents, who would silently yet loudly disapprove. It was Lidia’s day off and he did not have her personal number anyway. 

And he could not walk. 

Lips compressed into a sharp line of aggravation, Tim scowled at his left foot. It was in its usual school dress shoe, but beneath that was an impressive swath of ace bandaging and flexi-fiber cast supporting a very swollen ankle. 

He was being stupid. Now was the time to use the emergency card; there was no other logical choice. But oh, just the thought of it made his stomach clench. 

Turning the phone restlessly between his palms he didn't pay any attention to the figure stomping down the stairs behind him until it hit, colliding with his shoulder hard enough to set him spinning and falling down an intimidating thirty steps. 

As he swallowed a yelp and desperately windmilled in an attempt to balance, he put weight on his aching left ankle and promptly felt it give way. 

Then a hand snagged his hood and jerked him back, buttoned up collar pulling tight against his throat before he fell against a hard chest and an arm curled around him.

“Fuck! You okay?”

Breath wheezing a little from the adrenaline and half crushed larynx, Tim clutched at the arm around his shoulders and nodded.

“Y-yeah. Sorry. Thanks.”

“Tim?”

Dropping his head back Tim blinked through the rain at the face of Jason Todd, who looked equally surprised to see him. 

“Jason? What are you doing here?”

“You tell me first. Who are you with?” With a scowl Jason surveyed the near empty street and library facade with suspicion, as though expecting Tim’s guardian to leap from the shadows and accost him for manhandling a minor.

“No one.”

Angling his head downwards, Jason raised a brow. 

“You’re alone? Kid, don’t know if you noticed, but this ain’t exactly the best neighborhood.”  
Tim had to admit the potholes, badly aged and crumbling building facades and numerous shady loiterers supported that statement. But where else would he be able to research the original Gotham sewer systems? The city had donated most documents regarding it to the library decades ago.

“Its fine. My ride will be here soon.”

The rain petered out to a bare drizzle, catching on Tim’s lashes and leaving his face with an uncomfortable greasy feeling that had him grimacing. And Jason’s bracing arm was still in place, making him hunch uncertainly at the foreign weight of it. 

“Kid,” Jason grumbled, giving him a gentle shake before stepping away, “you’re a pretty shitty liar.”

Using the excuse of flipping his hood up in order to avoid eye contact, Tim scoffed. “Why would I be lying about that?”

“The hell should I know? Was just making an observation.”

Tim wisely decided to let the matter drop. 

“Why are you here, though?”

“Hidin’ from a certain asshole. And this place has the best classic poetry section. Lot of first additions.” 

That was news to Tim. But them again, he didn't even read required literature at school; it was amazing how often bullshit and bluffing could get a person an A.

“Now,” Jason said, crossing his arm and looking sternly down. He seemed even taller than when they’d last met, despite having moved a step lower. “What’re you doing here?”

“Research about Gotham’s history. Everyone says this is the best place to go.”

Jason grunts in agreement and squints at a distant alley, lip curling. Tim tries to stealthily follow his line of sight but sees nothing. He jumped when Jason huffed unhappily.

“I’ll give you a ride home, kid.”

Tim fell into step without thinking about it, taking three quick steps to every one of Jason’s. They swing around the corner of the building to the postage stamp, gloomy parking lot, cars crouching like sleeping monsters in the sputtering light of the single streetlamp. “But you can’t drive?”

“No, but Gotham lets ya have a license for some classes of motorcycles at fifteen.” He stopped abruptly and frowned. A softer, more thoughtful kind of frown. “Do you have a problem with bikes?”

“No,” Tim said hastily. It was true enough, though saying he had no experience would have been more apt. He’d never seen one closer than the other side of a window while driving but he knew they were becoming increasingly more popular with the Bats, which was more than enough to pique his interest.

At the very back of the lot was a small, sporty bike, a little scuffed and in need of some cosmetic work. It was smaller than the others Tim had seen, with high traction tires and a narrow seat. 

Jason smacked it lightly and smirked. “Not exactly pretty, but I’ve been working on her for almost a year. She just purrs now.”

Shaking water from his fingers, Tim very carefully tamped down on the urge to ask questions. It was so cool, utterly amazing that Jason did things like this. Learning this was as exciting as seeing a new disarmament technique wielded by Robin. 

Unsnapping a scuffed red helmet from the back wheel and removing the lock from the front, Jason threw a leg over the bike and smiled. “C’mere.”

Knocking back the hood roughly enough to have Tim startling, Jason dropped the slightly too large helmet on his head and tightened the strap. He tugged and pulled until satisfied and nodded shortly.

“You’re good. Hop on.”

This was the best day of his life, Tim decided as he obeyed. Really, he could die now and have no regrets. This was the best—

The grounded lurched away beneath them and Tim muffled a squeal of pure excitement behind a bitten tongue. He locked his arms around Jason, fingers knotting on the hem of his jacket as they turned a sharp corner and merged into a busy lane, street lights and sidewalks streaking past. 

There was a small undercurrent of fear that made Tim’s excitement all the greater. Adrenaline sharpening the colors around him, turning his smile almost manic. 

“You good, kid?!” Jason shouted against the wind and Tim tightened his grip even further.

“This is awesome!”

“Hell yeah, it is!”

As they streaked through Gotham Tim wondered if this is what being high felt like. 

It was full dark when they glided to a stop in front of the Drake house, the porch light gilding the ornamental shrubbery. 

Dismounting on rubbery legs Tim fumbled with removing the helmet, fingers clumsy on the clasps. They were batted aside by Jason’s larger and rougher ones. As the helmet was pulled off Tim’s smile was still wide and he stared up at the other boy in a haze of wordless joy. 

Jason snorted. “Better’n a roller coaster, right?”

“So much,” Tim gushed, despite never having been on one in his life. If Jason said it, it was definitely true anyway. “Oh my God, that was the best! Thank you so much!”

“No problem.” 

Steering Tim on his wobbling trek to the front door, Jason whistled jauntily and watched as he laborious unlocked the door and staggered to the discreet panel set in the wall, deactivating the security system. Tim was too happy to wonder at Jason’s presence as he followed all the way to the kitchen.

“That was the best,” Tim reiterated with undiminished enthusiasm as he pulled bottles of mineral water from the refrigerator. Jason accepted his with an grimace but cracked the lid anyway.

“Didn’t scare you then?”

“Nope,” Tim chirped and beamed.

They drank in silence for a while and slowly the exuberance of the closest thing to flight Tim had felt faded. Now he was left with Jason Todd in his kitchen and the realization that almost the full set had been in his house. The only one who hadn't was Batman, for which he was extremely grateful, but still… three Wayne affiliates had been in his house. 

Oddly, Jason was proving to be the least nerve wracking. Or maybe Tim was simply getting used to it. 

Unlike Alfred and Dick, Jason made no secret of his snooping. Slouching against the front of the fridge he examined the kitchen openly, scoffing under his breath at the tower of aging pears on the counter.

“Nice place.”

“Thank you. We actually have a summer house near Wayne Manor, but I haven't been there for years.”

Jason laughed. “Summer house. Right. So, what you do?”

“Do?” Tim repeated blankly.

“Yeah, do. Like hobbies or clubs or shit. Play polo, debate team, what?”

For a brief second Tim was distracted by the thought of playing polo. He’d probably die or wind up hitting someone with a club. Either way, it would end badly. When he realized the silence was stretching for too long, he blurted “Photography!”

“You take pictures? Of what?”

Of the vigilantes I stalk, Tim thought in panic, and shady criminal dealings. “Just stuff. Uh, architecture and… trees.”

Jasons smile was crooked and sly and seemed to indicate he knew he was being lied to but found it too amusing to interrupt.

“So you want to be a photographer? National Geographic kind of deal?”

Tim blinked. That actually sounded… nice. Though honestly he was a more of an urban human at heart. Photographing the wild, insect infested tundra would be unpleasantly against his nature. But it would at least be interesting. 

“I’m going to take over the family business.”

“That sucks,” Jason scoffed and Tim choked on a mouthful of water. People didn't just say that to heirs. “What does your family’s company even do?”

“Imports, mostly. My mother has been looking into expanding our interests in our nationally based manufacturing. Some of our companies make computer components and lab equipment.”  
“Wow. You know your stuff.”

Shrugging, Tim glanced at the clock above the door. Lidia would be home in under an hour and he didn't want her to report Jasons visit if he could help it.

“Not really. I just listen when they talk business.”

With a full body shrug Jason pushed upright and paced to the other side of the room, rapping his knuckled against the steel countertops. “Man, Bruce would love you. Me and Dick suck at business.”

Honestly, Tim could imagine that. In the interest of diplomacy he simply hummed thoughtfully rather than agree. 

Jason snorted. 

“Anyway, I gotta be getting back.”

“Oh! Of course. Thank you for the ride.” A dreamy smile snuck up on him as Tim walked alongside the older boy. “It was really fun.”

“You still have the Manor’s number right? Its Alfred’s personal line, so it'll be answered if you call.”

“Why are you people so insistent on that?” Tim muttered, and blushed immediately after. “I mean, I do have the number. Thank you.”

Knocking his elbow against Toms shoulder, Jason smirked. “Right. Goodnight kid, and be more careful where you go.”

“I will,” Tim lied.

Like Jason had done for him, Tim stood in the front door and watched until he vanished from sight, growling engine fading to silence. 

The campus was quiet and dark, even the most sleep averse student tucked safely into dorms. Dead grass crunched beneath his feet as Tim kept under the shadows of the scraggly trees of the campus court.

The path was familiar by now. Past the better dorms with single rooms and private bathrooms to the overcrowded ones on the outskirts, where students were crammed four to a room. The exterior was well kept, or at least what could be seen of it by visitors, and Jeremy Costner stood hunched over the glow of his cigarette on the steps of the main entrance. Tim crept up beside him.

“Good evening,” he hissed in his best Count Dracula impression and watched in satisfaction as the man leapt in place, sending the cigarette spinning into the the far wall.

“Jesus Christ, kid!” 

“Hello Jeremy.”

“Hello my ass. You realize that a good half the student population would react to your creeping by stabbing you in the face, right?”

“You’re against violence though,” Tim pointed out as they slipped into the building, pausing behind the shelter of a grimy plastic plant to listen for wandering dorm supervisors.

“No, I just have a highly developed flight reflex.”

“Yeah,” Tim mused thoughtfully, “you do startle like a damsel.”

Jeremy scoffed. “Whatever. At least damsels usually get saved, which is more than can be said for smartasses.”

The elevators were worthless, and possibly deathtraps, so the two of them climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, steps groaning despite every effort to walked lightly.

As the highest floor of the building there was less evidence of pipe leakage in the ceilings, which sloped and were uncomfortably low. In summer it was sweltering, in winter freezing. A few of the windows (which had not originally been made to open at all) were cracked, the airflow just enough to keep the thirty plus resident students from smothering. 

At the far end of the building was a room that served as a storage area. Hulking shapes of defunct furniture from the schools past, bits and pieces of wall, flooring and broken appliances were stacked against the walls. It was windowless and had an even lower ceiling than the hall. 

Grouped in small clusters were a dozen people. Students, for the most part, though there was a handful of outsiders and a single faculty member who was passed out in the corner. 

It smelt of burnt dust, body odor and electricity. 

Outnumbering the humans were computers. Consoles, laptops and tablets, cords running like vines in the jungle across the floor and draping from the rafters. A precarious stack of empty energy drinks held a platform with a good twenty modems, all flickering and trailing cords. Tim knew there was an unknown number of small, mobile satellite dishes on the roof outside, easily removed and hidden come morning. 

“Eh, its Baby!” Called a student who was all but physically merging with three monitors and a laboring pc. There was a chorus of acknowledgement that varied in enthusiasm according to the attention that could be spared and the energy to give a shit. 

“Haven’t seen you for a while, Baby.”

“Andromeda,” Tim greeted bleakly. 

At six feet tall, Andromeda was a stunning pre-grad with platinum hair and mocha skin and was wholly responsible for Tim’s unfortunate moniker. Her teethed flashed as she grinned and all but slammed the open space of floor beside her with the palm of her hand in invitation. 

Intimidating, irritating and wholly insane though she was, she was also the greatest hacker of Tim’s acquaintance and the sole reason he was competent at all in that field.

“Hows that worm working? Unearthed any good secrets yet?”

“Not really.” Tucking up against her side to avoid being stepped on or snagged and electrocuted by frayed cords, Tim peered shamelessly at her screen. 

“Pfft. Liar. I help you build all these pretty programs and you're nothing but stingy in return. Shame shame.”

“What about you? If this personal or a job?”

They both looked back at the devices perched on her lap. It was too bulky to be classified as a proper laptop and emitted a skin tingling wash of heat Tim could feel through three layers of clothing. 

“Job, of course. Kind of insultingly easy. Getting files from some divorce lawyers account, transferring it over to the client. Even you could do it in your sleep, Baby or not.”

“Right.”

“So what do you want?”

Knowing he had better seize the chance while she was willing to give him the attention, he dragged his laptop from the bland, oversized backpack he used during these meetings. The computer was unconnected to Timothy Drake entirely, with enough security to trip a master and a frankly excessive number of easily triggered kill switches. 

“That program from last month? You know, the monitoring one? Its sort of… hiccuping.”

Andromeda raised a brow and snatched the device away, plopping it unceremoniously on top of hers. “Thats a weird description, but I’ll take your word for it.”

Jeremy had drifted to the snoring faculty member and unceremoniously stole the half empty bottle of cheap, flavored vodka from their limp fingers. 

At an hour shy of dawn Andromeda and Tim had upgraded and improved his program and she had shown him one more of the myriad ways to torment non-upstanding members of the court via search history that was not nearly as deleted as previously believed. 

Jeremy walked, or perhaps more aptly staggered, Tim to the border of the campus. Tim smiled as the man hummed off tune. 

“Drink some water before you go to bed.”

“Okay, oaky!”

“Seriously, if you don’t you’ll be useless all day.”

Jeremy blew a wet raspberry. “Naaaah! ‘sides, what do you know about being drunk?”

“I researched it.”

“Ugh. Research. Haaate research.”

Tim snickered. “I know. I’ve seen your grades.”

“What? How? I’ve never showed you.”

“Jeremy, you literally introduced me to a club of hackers. That was the first lesson.”

He gasped dramatically and choked on violently inhaled spit. Tim watched him carefully as the coughing nearly sent him flat.

“Betrayal!” Jeremy gasped once he could breath again.

“Really, go to bed.”

Tim plopped into a seat at the bus-stop and cinched the straps of his backpack tighter. The street was deserted and this was a somewhat better stretch of Gotham but he couldn't afford to have his laptop stolen. It had cost thirteen essays, nine quizzes and half a thesis. He was not going to be careless with it. 

Jeremy was shuffling in a line and wobbling with every carefully placed step. Tim watched him with interest. 

“You’re a good kid.”

Tim frowned at the statement. Jeremy simply met his eyes with the intense solemnity of the inebriated. 

“I mean, you’re a really good kid. You shouldn't be hanging out with hackers, or doing whatever you do. Y’know?”

“Well what else am I am going to do, vodka man?” Tim said with an awkward laugh. 

Through a cloud of eye burning, cotton candy flavored liquor breath, Jeremy blinked slowly like a sad Saint Bernard. 

“Uhm. Go to school? Play video games?”

“Just what do you think I do now?” Tim asked. He was genuinely curious and so waited expectantly as Jeremy slowly gathered his thoughts together. 

“Dude, I shudder to imagine. Something illegal, probably.”

Tim was both surprised and slightly insulted. He had never imagined he gave off a criminal vibe. Then again, he couldn't deny it considering his pastimes included extreme trespassing, hacking government databases and stalking. 

Yeah, maybe he shouldn't be surprised. 

Still, “Of course I don’t!” He blatantly lied. And even drunk, Jeremy knew it. 

“Sure kid. Just be careful, okay?”

And there wasn't any way to respond to bare concern gracefully. Tim lacked both experience and training to deal with it, so he smiled and gratefully fled to the bus, tucking himself into the back. Through the back window, barely illuminated by the faint not-light of pre-dawn, Jeremy waved goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who commented for giving me different perspectives, which is exactly what was needed to kick the author anxiety.  
> This is just a chapter of nothing, basically. I just love writing character interactions and sometimes it gets away with me! Also, I know absolutely nothing about computer.... stuff. Might as well be magic


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Plot

Something was very wrong with Gotham’s crime fighting duo and Tim was officially Concerned.

Only a few years ago he’d been a silent, intermittent witness to the implosion of Batman’s and the original Robin’s relationship, watched it crumbled through binocular lenses and behind crumbling building facades. Even knowing the second Robin was significantly more volatile than his senior, Tim hadn't thought history would repeat itself. 

It was even worse this time. 

There was an edge to their interactions even when they were working smoothly, which was occurring less and less often. Robin’s teasing remarks were now biting attacks, the aggression visible even if Tim was never close enough to hear the words. Batman was unyielding in the face of his partners anger, unmoving and unmoved, ordering where once he asked. 

Chewing anxiously on his knuckles, he sat hunched in the back of the winter linen storage cupboard. Tim watched the latest video from the enhanced button camera he had tucked into the cracks of a chimney near the police station. Only the barest edge of Batman's cape was visible, and Robin’s legs with their recent addition of heavy steel toed boots. But even from such a skewed perspective and no audio, the argument was ugly. 

The timestamp was from four days ago and there had been no hint of Robin anywhere on Tim’s carefully coded net of civilian watches, police scanners or personally placed camera’s since. Batmans absence wasn't unusual but Robin…

Robin should be here. 

There were disturbing whispers over the net. Little bubbles of rumor surfacing from Gothams own little corner of the dark net, of something Big going down out of town. 

Blood burst hot and wet and revolting over his tongue and Tim jerked his hand back with a yelp, staring at the teethmarks in the back of his thumb. The pain sparked a cascade of awareness through his whole body and Tim sighed. Legs all but dead from sitting cramped for hours, eyes aching from scanning a bright screen in otherwise total darkness and the shaking from no caffeine for several hours. It was almost enough to be miserable but, inevitably, his aching eyes traveled back to the screen. 

Something was wrong. Something was terribly, dangerously off about the situation and Tim couldn't just… leave it. 

Determined, he licked the blood from his hand, and searched deeper.

It took three days.

It took three days and he was late. He was too late. There was just enough, just barely enough information to paint a picture and it was too late. 

Ethiopia and Shiela Haywood. Assassins and the Joker. A listless tweet from a hired thug on the other side of the world about something that set Tim’s stomach sinking and his hands shaking. 

Oh God, what was he supposed to do? 

The first frantic ten minutes, after the clues gathered over endless hours and countless favors slotted together, were spent calling. Calling numbers he had never so much as imagined using. Calling a manor that never connected to anything but an impeccably worded voicemail. Calling Dick, calling his station in Bludhaven only to hear he wasn't there. Calling Barbara Gordan and never making it passed the rightone. 

What was he supposed to do? 

He was crying. Had been for the last fifteen minutes. Huge, gasping breaths that hurt and wouldn't ease. His mind was spinning so quickly it felt shattered, glass in a shaken tin can. 

Jason was in trouble. Jason, who was amazing and kind and brave, was going to die because Tim couldn't do anything!

There was a beep, another alert that the Twitter account had been undated again and Tim lunged over the table, sending empty mugs and bits of cobbled together super-computer flying.

[Countdown til end of the job! Payday for doing dirty! #ticktock]

The blood seemed to leach from Tim’s whole body, draining instantly through some wound he couldn't see or feel. It was cold, suddenly. Quiet. When his hands settled over the keys they weren't shaking anymore and he could breath. 

If he couldn't do something he’d make someone else do it for him

The site he logged into was plain. A community for bored singles looking for brief digital companionship. Badly shot selfies and brief profiles scrolled by until he found the one he was looking for, an innocuous photo of a gap toothed, sweet faced woman with choppy bangs and an unsure smile. 

Hands rock steady, Tim typed.

[looking for a connection. hook me up.]

He waited. Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds later a reply came. 

[Wow, brusque and to the point! I like it. Who’re you looking for, hot stuff?]

[Its an emergency. Need a connection fast, want to make a deal?]

[Sure, I know lots of ladies! Follow the link and I’ll get you set right up!]

Unhesitatingly obedient, Tim did and his screen when black with an audible click through the speakers, followed by a chaotic wash of code, scrolling too fast for his eyes to follow. Then another screen, plain and deceptively old school, requiring billing and a flat fee of 10,000. 

Using account information from a distant family acquaintance, acquired during a childish investigation of the man when Tim was nine, he committed the first felony of his life. 

[Thank you, valued customer. How may we help you today?]

[i need someone in Ethiopia immediately. no preference for agents. price no object. bonus included to all parties for prompt service.]

[Good, cause this won’t be easy. Not very many people in Ethiopia. Time?]

[now.]

[Better be in earnest about that bonus, valued customer.]

The next half hour trickled by like magma across his skin as Tim set every asset and account he knew onto a computer stolen from the campus library, all trace of its former owner scoured away. Thousands of dollars trickled from dozens of owners and scores of accounts into a single one, the savings of yet another Gothamite. Thousands ticked into the hundreds of thousands and kept going. He’d never thought about how much money he had been able to access with just the click of a few keys, but was now only distantly satisfied.

[Got your hookup. That will be an additional 10,000.]

Tim supplied it.

[Thank you, valued customer. Follow the link, and feel free to use our services again.]

Another blank screen, longer lasting than before. Static hissed over the speakers. 

The screen that popped up again was black, with only an icon Tim was passingly familiar with. But familiar enough to make the cold settle deeper, make his breath hitch painfully. 

The League of Assassins. 

[SPECIFY TARGET]

Distantly, Tim could hear the voice messages and busy signals and dial tones from the dozen and more phones he had rigged to continuously call for help. But there was no difference in the lack of reply. No help for Tim and none for Jason.

[request immediate extraction and protection of attached individual] The video file of the last recorded sighting of Robin felt strangely damning to send. Strangely like a violation. 

[SPECIFY TARGET]

Swallowing something burning and bitter, Tim forced his mind to silence. 

[i don’t want anyone dead. extraction and protection of attached individual. price no object]

[SPECIFY TARGET]

Tim could very distantly feel an annoying tickle trailing down his face. Light as spider legs and just as unsettling. 

[extraction and protection. no killing. price no object]

[SPECIFY TARGET]

[EXTRACTION AND PROTECTION]

The replies stopped, the icon spinning lazily on an empty screen. Then a soft click and a deep, melodious voice spoke.

“I believe you hold a misconception regarding the nature of our work.”

Tim didn't recognize the voice but it seized him like a dogs teeth, sinking into his middle and dragging his attention to it. There was no reason for it. Nothing threatening or even off putting to the voice, with its strangely musical intonations and faint undertone of boredom. 

“Though, admittedly, your demand involves an interesting person. Why the insistence and why do you trust any of our agents not to slaughter the shabby mutt upon sight?”

That had not occurred to him but Tim didn't care. Possible death at the hands of assassins or certain death preceded by worse things at the hands of the Joker. Tim felt confident of Jason’s opinion on the matter.

[you are professionals]

“Yes. Of a profession you seem to have no interest in utilizing. Is our title not self explanatory?”

[its not what i need. extraction and protection. price no object]

“You are a very tedious person.” Somehow the voice became even more disinterested and Tim replied without thought.

[so you say after bombarding me with a single stock phrase]

The silence this time was long enough for Tim to wonder with sickening horror whether he had just destroyed Jason’s only chance. 

“Well,” the purr came, quieter even than the previous mild tone and Tim jolted with relief and a sick sense of dread. It felt eerily similar to the way an insect strained desperately against a fresh web. “that was not the reply I was expecting.”

[will you accept the contract?]

“You have failed to give us a target. How are we to form a contract at all?”

[i don’t need anyone killed. extrac]

“Yet you contacted assassins.” 

[your organization also provides body guarding services. it is documented]

“That is so. However, the only available agents have only one specialty.”

[the contract is simple. why is there any need for discussion? payment will be prompt and in full]

“That is not the point. We have a code that will not be broken for something so petty as money. Provide a target or this conversation is finished.”

On the nearby laptop the account held 10 million and continued to grow. Many of the drained accounts had frozen, alarms and failsafes tripped too late. Others were decimated.

[i don’t want to kill]

The twitter alert sounded again and Tim swallowed at the photo of a locked door. Innocuous to anyone else, but terrifying to him. [Set to go. #ticktock]

“Which is the crux of the matter. I grow tired of this game.” 

He was running out of time. 

[i don’t want to kill. take the deal]

“Last chance, stranger. Provide me a target or begone.”

[Big Boss finally done. Coming home, baby!]

Tim closed his eyes briefly, swallowing around a hollow absence of pain. It seemed as though there should be pain there, with the way feeling drained away like blood. It was the work of a second to attach an image file. 

[do not harm original individual. target exclusively Joker]

A deep, silky, melodic laugh.

“Contract accepted.”

It was oddly like being dead, Tim decided some weeks later. The knowledge there was blood on his hands seeped through him like a poison, corrosive and numbing. Nothing touched him but a sort of vague self directed feeling of revulsion. It was a feeling of filth there was no way to pull away from when it was inside himself. 

His parents were home in a state of enraged panic he had never would have imagined them capable of. Then again, most of the upper echelon of Gotham was in a similar state. 

Drake and Wayne industries had been hit hard, but others had been completely destroyed in a single hour. Hundreds of people found themselves jobless. Factories and companies fell silent. Tim was peripherally aware of the news playing on every screen of the house, reporting the collapse of Gotham’s economic infrastructure. Whether it was an act of terrorism or simple theft of an unheard of scale was the topic of choice. 

Tim had all but destroyed thousands of lives. He had nearly toppled his city. He had paid nearly a 50 million dollars to kill a man. 

Sometimes Tim wondered if he were the one who should be dead. Wondered wistfully, because it would have been so much simpler. So much easier than facing the repercussions of his actions every day. 

“If I ever get a hand on those fucking thieving cunts, I’ll kill them,” Jack Drake stated into his cup of coffee. Janet didn't so much as twitch from her place at the stove, her lack of response alien when Tim knew she had no tolerance for vulgarity, especially of that level. 

As though from a distance, Tim asked “You think it was more than one person.”

“Of course it fucking was!”

“Oh,” Tim mumbled into his own cup of coffee. 

Janet slid a platter of pancakes onto the table and took her seat in utter silence. 

The last time the Drake family had eaten together at their own kitchen table Tim had been six. And neither of his parents had ever cooked any of the meals eaten there. Just a month ago this turn of events would have left him ecstatic. 

Now, it seemed there was nothing left in him to feel anything with. Perhaps he had lost that ability?

Not that it mattered.

“The board of directors have called a meeting for this evening.” Janet said as she cut her breakfast into cubes, eating them plain. 

“Whats the point? We’re ruined.”

“If we close all our side companies and consolidate our interests in easily marketable areas, we might recover.”

“Bullshit!” The tableware rattled from the force of Jacks fist as he stood. With a nearly subvocal snarl of rage he swept his own empty plate and half full mug off the table, shattering them against the wall. “We’re fucking done!”

“With that mentality, we certainly will be!” Janet snapped as coffee dripped down the wall to pool beside her chair. Her bloodshot eyes, for once devoid of makeup, sparked with temper. “Get yourself together.”

“I can’t—“ Breaking off, Jack dropped back into his chair, head in his hands and shoulders shaking. 

Swallowing back familiar nausea, Tim quietly left without being excused and was not called back. 

The explosion was barely a blip on the media radar. The bodies found inside were left unidentified save for Sheila Haywood, who died at the scene. The few photos of the aftermath were poor quality and the official reports vague. There was no mention of the Joker. 

There was no mention of Jason.

For the first week Tim hoped the silence was simply due to Batman protecting his protege. That perhaps Jason had been hidden away to recover. That soon Robin would be back on the rooftops and in alleys, that the world would go back to the way it should be. 

It was the obituary that finally gave him answers. A picture of Jason Todd and a brief, bland report of the death date and surviving family. The funeral had already been completed, a closed casket service due to the listed cause of death, cited as an auto wreck.

But Jason wasn't dead. 

Tim had made sure he wouldn't die, so of course this was simply a misunderstanding, or a smokescreen or an outright lie. 

Jason wasn't dead. 

The computers he had used were now nothing but melted plastic and slag lying at the bottom of the harbor. Stealing and purchasing new ones with the appropriate capabilities took several days and money Tim had no business taking, but it was necessary. From there it took three weeks of searching, hacking and legwork to find leverage.

His parents were out, at yet another meeting. The house was tomblike and cold, dust collecting in corners and the floors steadily losing their shine as the absence of cleaning staff made itself known. Tim packed his equipment in a dufflebag, left a note for his parents on the hall table and left.

The location he went to had been picked with care. A crowded neighborhood of mixed residential and business, with hundreds of signals from hundreds of devices helping to disguise his presence. The capabilities of his last laptop had been enough to protect him, but there was no time to waste recreating them now. Tim could only hope to settle things before being found.

When the Leagues icon was on the screen Tim wasted no time.

[respond or attached file will be released in five minutes]

In three a familiar voice whispered through his headphones, settling on him like an unwanted touch. “Hello, stranger.”

[you did not uphold your end of the contract]

“In what way? The target was eliminated and no further harm was done to the little gutter brat.”

[give him back]

Laughter, followed by a smugly pleased hum. “That was not part of the contract.”

[give him back or the file will be released to every media outlet in the country]

“If you intend to threaten me, do so with something more meaningful than a single petty video.”

[what makes you think that is the only thing i have?]

Gritting his teeth Tim sent a barrage of carefully gathered information. Safe houses, weapons stashes, informants and, most damning, a client list of several of Gothams most influential people. 

It was sickening having so much in his hands, knowing he could shut down several illegal operations or see the guilty brought to justice, but using it for his own purposes. Less than a month ago he would have sent it all to the proper authorities. Then again, less than a month ago he wasn't a murderer.

The silence felt damning and dangerous.

“What a well informed creature you are. And very, very foolish. Do you have any idea what will happen when I find you?”

[death, dismemberment, every awful thing under the sun. don't care. give him back]

“What makes you think I have him?”

[whether you have him or not is inconsequential. return him to gotham unharmed in three days or i release everything i have and go digging for more]

“You seem sure of your own prowess.”

[i am. and i am angry. do not make me an enemy]

“You are doing that yourself, stranger. Perhaps I will simply kill the wretched creature regardless.”

[and have your american interests destroyed in a day? you have seen what became of gotham]

“I have, and may I say nicely done.” 

[when this information is released i wager a good portion of you future plans will be rendered void. give him back]

A rhythmic click started, slow and distant. Tim hunched into the comfort of his sweatshirt and tried to keep his heart from beating to its pace.

“Very well. In return, you will delete your information. And if anything untoward happens to my interests I will see your precious creature dead. Deal?”

[three days]

“Three days. And as a courtesy I tell you this; you will not be a stranger to me for long.” 

Tim swallowed painfully, flipped the computer and tore out the battery. 

That evening at the waterfront, as he burned another shattered computer, he thought about the mans last words. It was a promise that felt inevitable but, Tim mused as the lung searing stench of burning plastic fill the air, perhaps he deserved it.

The first day was a repeat of the previous weeks. The news still focused on the slowly stabilizing economy, on the investigation that was going nowhere. His father drank, his mother fell into deeper silence. The artifacts that had sat proudly throughout the house slowly disappeared.

The second day the news shifted slightly. A rash of murders and arson throughout the city, unidentifiable bodies pulled from the water. Tim recognized half the locations as ones he still had saved on a hard-drive duct taped inside the third chimney of the house. The feeling of more blood on his hands sapped his energy and he lay in the dark, sweating under a mountain of mismatched blankets.

The third day saw the first break in the Gotham Economic Apocalypse media frenzy.

The child of Gothams favorite son was found wandering the outskirts of the city. Back From The Dead! Miraculous! 

A single photo of Bruce Wayne all but climbing into his son’s hospital bed went viral. A touching story with a happy conclusion, just what was needed after the last month of misery. Sources claim the investigation into the auto accident revealed the body thought to Jason Todd was an unidentified car thief. 

Tim could only wonder how Bruce Wayne had managed to explain the empty coffin. 

He kept his end of the deal and burned the hard-drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter. HATE it. Because I know nothing about computers, as previously stated. So this chapter is just a means to an end.  
> Double update because the previous chapter was not anything plot related at all!


	6. Chapter 6 : Arc 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The start of arc two. There is a timeskip of several months between this and the last chapter.  
> And introducing the best blonde!  
> Warnings at bottom of chapter

Public school was far more terrifying than any advanced academics Tim had ever taken. 

The sheer volume of students per classroom was staggering. Teachers struggled to accommodate as many as forty students at once, the facilities available were never enough, resources were stretched far past the breaking point. The few programs funded by the school were solely sport related and barely surviving off a pittance of a stipend, with decades old equipment. 

The only positives Tim had found thus far was the easy commute and utter anonymity. No one cared about him or paid attention to what he did. Once he learned to tune out the noise he could sleep straight through class without consequence, which was nearly enough to make up for the people around him. 

The high point of his school day was the end. A few of the teachers had struck a deal with him; access to the faculty bathroom in exchange for help grading. It took an hour out of his day but was well worth it. Tim had seen homicide crime scenes less horrifying than the student bathrooms. 

It was Friday (and therefore a day for celebration) and Tim was seated in the gloomy campus library with a binder of english papers in front of him when a door slammed, hard enough to rattle the windows and send dust floating down from the ceiling. Clenching a red pen, Tim listened.

There was the sound of surprisingly light footsteps for how fast they were moving, with raised approaching voices from outside the library. Just as the door slammed for a second time, a mass of yellow, pink and purple lunged around the corner, dropped and skidded beneath Tim’s table.

It took a massive amount of willpower, but Tim managed not to squeal or stab the human all but wrapped around his shins.

Round, spiky lashed blue eyes peered at him from under the table as a small hand gripped shackle-like around his ankle. “Hide me!”

“Who—?”

“Shhhhhh!”

With a thunderous booming of feet on unsteady foundations and a breathlessly wheezed but vehement curse, Cavanough rounded a tall shelf. Bracing a massive paw on the corner of the shelf, setting it wobbling slightly, he peered around the room.

“Timothy?”

The hand on his ankle tightened. “Uh, hey, Mr Cavanough. Do you need something?”

The mans bushy brows lowered to neanderthallic depths and his mouthed twisted. “Have you seen a blonde girl run through here?”

“Nope,” Tim replied a little too promptly and the fugitive between his legs pinched him. “Ah, I heard someone running, but no one really comes this far back, so…”

“Damn. Well, if you see her, tell a teacher.”

“Sure thing, Mr Cavanough.” Tim gave a little wave as the man stumped away. “Good luck.”

Eventually the slightly softer slam of the door heralded the teachers exit and Tim drew his legs up onto the seat. 

“Oh thank God,” the fugitive muttered with feeling as she squat walked from beneath the table, hair in a drooping ponytail. “Thanks for the assist, good citizen. Your name actually Timothy?”

Tim watched warily as she stood, stretched and then sat on the table, feet swinging and hands planted bracingly between her legs. 

“Yes, but I go by Tim.”

“Good call. I’m Stephanie, by the way.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

It was only when his hand was fully extended that he remembered kids in his age group usually didn't shake hands. Stephanie didn't give him a chance to figure out how to make the gesture look like something else before she was pumping it enthusiastically.

“A pleasure!” 

She was all but beaming like a searchlight.

“Why were you running from Mr Cavanough, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t mind. You're an accomplice now anyway.”

Tim didn't care for the sound of that but Stephanie continued with increasingly wide hand gestures.

“I’m supposed to be in detention for dress code violations, but like heck I’m doing that. Its archaic and really, really unfair! I mean, why should I have to wear a gym shirt when I’m already sufficiently covered?”

Arms spread she invited Tim to inspect said sufficient coverage, a faded purple tank top and baggy shorts. The multiple bracelets she wore were just a variety of faux leather, rubber bands and beads.

“I don’t know,” Tim admitted. He hadn't even bothered to learn the dress code at all. In fact, it was news to him that public school even had one. 

“Right? There’s a ton of guys walking around with their diaper swag and I get in trouble for wearing a racer back? C’mon.”

“That sucks.”

“Which is why I’m protesting. By not doing detention.”

Tim expected her to add a ‘So there!’ and made sure to give her time to do so. Unfortunately she restrained herself.

“Good for you?” He offered.

“Very good for me! But enough about that! If I think about it anymore I’ll wind up raging. What about you? I’m shocked Cavanough manages to remember the names of any students, much less someone I’m positive isn't in his class.”

The demand for an explanation was all but broadcasted and Tim subtly moved to close the binder.

“No reason in particular. I just know a lot of teachers.”

“Brown nosing? I guess thats one way to survive school.”

If Tim had been in the habit of being offended, he was pretty sure that would have done it. As it was, he simply shrugged. Stephanie’s pale eyebrows rose and her eyes became just a touch sharper, smile a little more crooked.

“Are you new here? I haven't seen you around, though considering the student population thats not exactly surprising.”

Tim capped the pen and chucked it into the binder, zipping it closed. “A few months. I transferred here.”

“From where?”

Tim broke eye contact more abruptly than usual. Without the constant practice of living up to his parents social expectations his subtlety had degraded. He should probably do something about that. 

“Gotham Academy.”

To her credit the breath Stephanie sucked in was small. Her reaction was extremely subtle compared to his own, but he heard it regardless. The tiny hope she wouldn't put the pieces together guttered out. 

It wasn't as though he was embarrassed by his families situation. Academically, the change of schools had been a relief. He was the same age as his fellow classmates for the first time in his life, there was no pressure to excel. But it was more uncomfortable than expected to have people point him out in the halls and whisper and laugh at the Rich Boy who was no longer rich. A good number of the students threw it in his face and watched manically for any hint of hurt. He’d found it was best to give it to them, lest they escalate to something worse.

So other than the soul shattering guilt, the change in fortune didn't matter to him.

But it clearly mattered to everyone else.

“I should probably be heading home. It was nice to meet you though, Stephanie. Good luck sticking it to the man.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, “thanks. See you around.”

Tim sincerely hoped not but he smiled, smiled and waved and walked away. “Yeah. See ya.”

Monday came down like a hammer. 

His parents were gone on business somewhere in Asia and had forgotten to leave him grocery money. Which was fine, of course. He was already a criminal in multiple respects so selling pre-written papers to his classmates didn't even register. It wasn't exactly lucrative - there was only so much public school kids could spend - but coupled with the college students he still wrote for it was enough for his needs.

The previous night had been long and uncomfortably moist. Sitting in a dark crevice between two slightly lopsided buildings and spying on a potential drop-spot for automatic weapons had provided plenty of time for the damp to creep in and take up residence in lungs still aching from a previous cold. And that was uncomfortable but still manageable, nothing to get upset over. 

What was worth getting upset over was having an asshole knock his book bag to the floor and crush his laptop with a single, hard stomp. 

Fists clenching with bone creaking strength, Tim shot up from his unfortunate position on the ground and crowded close. The smell of stale clothing and over applied deodorant stung his stuffy nose as he glared. 

“Ooooh,” Matt Hardy cooed, slamming an open palm against Tim’s shoulder and failing to recognize that his rocking back was anything but a sign of weakness. “Finally grew a backbone? Or did you buy it?”

A few of the students around them laughed, but the rest continued on their way with eyes averted. Tim didn't care; so much as looking sideways could set them in the sights of people even worse than Matt Hardy, who was a big fish in a small, scummy pond. 

“Whats with that look, pretty boy? Got something to say?”

“Yes. You destroyed two thousand dollars worth of private property. Thats a crime.” Abruptly shoving closer, Tim shoved into the soft area beneath the larger boys sternum and resisted the urge to push harder as he wheezed. “Do you want to be expelled or put in juvie? Because I can make that happen.”

The smug look was all but gone, replaced by confusion and a growing hint of fear. Matt scoffed and closed his arms over his middle, trying to look intimidating while protecting himself from further harm. 

“What? No you can’t, you ass licker. Just get your daddy to buy you a new whatever, fuck.”

Tim almost laughed at that. If he came to his father with one more extraneous expense he’d become the first to witness spontaneous human combustion up close. And he had no intention of being burned. 

“Why should anyone but you pay for it? You broke it, on purpose.”

“What? No I didn’t, you just dropped it.” Face practically lighting like a bulb, Matt realized he’d stumbled upon salvation by accident and puffed up further. Tim watched in dismay. “Yeah! You shouldn't just drop things, Timothy. No wonder its broken!”

And Tim was too tired to fight anymore. Wordlessly scooping up his backpack he walked briskly away. He felt awful, too cold, clammy, sick in head and stomach. Just… tired. 

Snorting back mucus, he was too busy staring morosely at his shoes to realized that out of the many bodies around him, one was keeping pace. 

“That was fucked,” Stephanie commented brightly. 

Today she was dressed in a short, fluffy tiered skirt over jeans, an oversized mens T-shirt with an obscenely cartoonified Yoda smoking three joints at once, and messy braids. Little plastic stars swung from her ears, glinting in the florescent hall lighting. 

“I know Matts an ass and a half, but that was fucked.” She grimaced and finally made eye contact. “Sorry.”

“Yes, well,” Tim muttered pointlessly, shrugging. His whole life was fucked at this point so what was one more terrible thing?

“Was that thing really worth two thousand dollars? No offense, but I’ve seen you with it in class and I never seen anything that looks more like junk.”

Tim shrugged again. It really had looked awful. “I put a lot of stuff into it.”

“I’ll take you word for it. The only technology I can use is a Wii.”

Good God, that was sad. Momentarily startled out of his fog of misery, Tim realized they were not heading for his science class. When Stephanie had switched from tagalong to leader he honestly had no clue. “Where are we going?”

“Ditching.” Holding up a hand tipped in chipping polish, she looked archly down her lightly freckled nose. “Ah ah ah. You’ve lost a dear friend-thing. You are bereaved. And honestly look about as healthy as cat puke, so I say skipping a few classes is more than reasonable.”

Closing his mouth, Tim clutched his pack closer and followed, because she had a point and this was honestly preferable to being miserable in a classroom. 

“Right. Follow me to nirvana, or the closest school has to offer.”

“This won’t involved cannabis, will it?” Tim asked suspiciously, looking in the blank eyes of Yoda before realizing it could be misconstrued as staring at something else entirely and flung his gaze at the ceiling.

“Psh. No. That stuff makes me sick, honestly, and even if it didn't I wouldn't share it with you, teachers pet. Uh, no offense.”

Though Tim didn't see how that could be anything but offensive, he didn't comment.

Five minutes later Stephanie was hoisting him up from a closed trash bin and onto the low roof of the tennis clubs storage building. It creaked and shuddered under their weight but as Tim had been on far more precarious perches he barely paid any attention. 

“Nice huh? View of the track field, a little bit of the parking lot and, of course, a beautiful overpass. Don’t ever say I never took you someplace nice.”

“I won’t,” Tim said agreeably. They settled quietly side by side, a few inches of space between their knees. Tim didn't have the heart or the energy to inspect his laptop and so he just slumped over the bag and drifted. 

“You really don't look so hot, honestly.”

“Just a cold,” he muttered sleepily. 

“Have you been to see the nurse?”

Tim shook his head. “She scares me.”

Stephanie snorted. “Okay, true. Buuut she has orange juice. Without pulp.”

“I don’t think that stuff has anything to do with actual oranges.”

“So? There’s banana flavored candy that has nothing to do with real bananas.”

“Actually, there was a banana apocalypse—“

“I already heard about that,” Stephanie interrupted hastily. 

Tim shrugged. 

“And if you don’t want to drink it, I will.”

“I don’t need to go to the nurse,” Tim repeated. He had a feeling people repeated themselves frequently in Stephanie’s presence. “Its just a cold.”

“And a sewer just smells like shit.” 

Rocking his head to the side, Tim squinted at her. “That makes no sense.”

“Sense is over-rated. Anyway, are you warm enough in that?”

‘That’ being a blazer that had seen better days. It was lightweight linen, more an accessory than an actual article of clothing, but it was one of the few clean things in the apartment and so he wore it rather than the sweater he’d been using for the past week straight. He pinched the fabric between his fingers and shrugged again. 

“Honestly, I don’t really feel much,” he mumbled, settling his head back onto his backpack and closing his gummy eyes. And that was true enough; spending years wandering in the frigid, damp Gotham nights had made him far hardier than he appeared. He’d even stopped getting hypothermia after the first year. “I’m just tried.”

He startled at the feeling of a hand slapping against his spine, and then being briskly rubbed up and down. But he was tired, too tired to leap off the edge of the roof as he otherwise would have at the unexpected touch. 

“Yeah,” Stephanie said. And though her voice and personality didn't seem suited to softness, there was hint of it there in the low rasp of her voice. “Yeah. I get that. Want to catch a few winks? I’ll keep a watch for teachers.”

What a good idea. Sleep would be good. And there was a rare shaft of sunshine burning through the omnipresent smog cover, warm against his skin. Some part of his mind was whispering dire warnings about sleeping in the presence of a stranger, in a hostile environment. Most of him was already drifting off. 

He feel asleep with his face buried in battered, smelly canvas and a rough hand between hunched shoulders. 

It was the best sleep he’d had for months. 

It was during lunch that it dawned on Tim that Stephanie was, shockingly, a friend. 

He paused with a limp, oil saturated slice of something resembling pizza halfway to his mouth and stared at her. She had opted for chicken nuggets and was systematically drowning them in strange combination of mustard, mayonnaise and hot sauce that she had mixed in a paper cup while cackling disconcertingly. 

Tim had never had a friend before. Not in the traditional sense. Not someone to spend all the free periods with, eat with, call at night and spend hours keeping each other awake. He couldn't recall ever having a discussion about it which meant it must have happened organically. Naturally. Like fungal growth.

“What?” Stephanie demanded in a spray of gooey crumbs.

“Nothing.”

“Really? Cause you look like someone just pole vaulted over your grave or something.”

Tim snorted. “Nothing. One of your stickers is falling off, though.”

“Oh no, shit.” Patting frantically, she checked the stability of the tiara of gold stars she had stolen an hour before, patting them flat. “Darn. They really don’t make glue like they used to.”

“Maybe its the lack of horses, these days.”  
Stephanie sneered at him but nodded. “You may be right dude. Though I guess I can put up with sucky adhesives if no horses are harmed.”

“You’re a saint.”

“I am.”

“I’m not going to be home tonight,” Tim mumbled and grimaced as a bead of oil slithered down his wrist into his sleeve. Stephanie immediately perked. 

“Ohoho. Do tell.”

Tim glowered at her but his mouth twitched too much to be intimidating so he wound up smiling instead. “Its nothing interesting, just family stuff.”

“Really? Thats awesome, I thought they were too busy, what with the business and all.”

And there was another indicator of intimacy; someone actually had a vague idea regarding how much time his parents had to spare for him. It was hard to hide it, when he was always able to devote all attention to her whenever she called or hopped online, no matter the time. 

So Tim boldly lied.

“Yeah, they decided to take a night off.”

“Thats great!”

“Yeah, great.” He slid a quick glance at the cafeteria clock. “What about you? Hows your dad?”

Her smile turned sour. Behind her a trio of older girls were screaming and pulling hair but she didn't so much as flinch. 

“Oh you know, same old same old.”

Which was far more informative than she realized. Tim was slightly embarrassed to admit, even privately, that he had shamelessly snooped into her life months ago. He knew her father was a criminal, that there was no mother in the picture and that things were escalating. He’d even followed the guy a few times, hoping to get something to blackmail him into stopping but had been chased off by someone he assumed was a perimeter guard. They were certainly way too slippery for Tim to risk tangling with. 

It wasn't hard to keep from probing though. She might look miserable, but Tim had long again realized that everyone was, to some degree or another. 

The bell shrieked and everyone slowly skulked out. The three girls were shepherded out by tired looking aids while Tim and Stephanie were scraping their trays into the overfull trash bin. Stephanie attempted to frisebee her tray to the top of the precarious stack and winced when it overshot and hit the wall with a crack. 

“Ah.”

“Just smile and walk, Steph, smile and walk.”

A bony elbow thunked precisely into the soft hollow above his hip and he yelped, scooting quickly away. 

“Don’t paraphrase my favorite boys!”

“I thought you’d appreciate it! Ow.”

Bouncing on the balls of her feet with every step, propelled by energy Tim couldn't conceive of having without the aid a dozen energy drinks, Stephanie launched herself down the hallway. Other students all but fell out of her path. Tim, well accustomed to this, simply walked behind her, grateful not to have to clear a path himself. 

Stephanie was nothing if not an effective battering ram. 

Steph left him at his classroom with a cocky wave before proceeding on her way. Tim watched her go and waited until she was out of sight before slinking away. 

Feeling only a little guilty for ditching without her knowledge, he made his way off the school grounds via the back fence. By now most of his teachers were willing to overlook his frequent absences in light of him raising the overall grades of their classes and the many favors he was willing to perform. 

Sometimes, Tim mused as he recklessly jaywalked and dodged a flurry of vehicles driven by righteously angry drivers, he felt like a hoodlum. Skipping school, crawling over rooftops and spying on people in broad daylight. But then he remembered he had stolen millions and caused the death of several people and realized that hoodlum was far too innocent a label for him. 

The townhouse was silent and empty when he slipped in. The pale grey walls and granite floors, coupled with the poor lighting, made the entire first floor feel cold. It was a newer building in a long row of identical constructions in a neighborhood his parents would never have so much as driven through a year ago. Now, it was a step up from their previous apartment, with rooftop communal gardens and swimming pool, a three car garage and a modest 699,000 dollar price tag. 

Honestly, Tim had preferred the apartment; his window had been blessed with a fire escape that barely creaked when he snuck down it. Here he had to slither out his bathroom window, scale the wall a good ten feet up and haul himself onto the roof in order to avoid being seen by neighbors or their security cameras.

“Home sweet home, home were the coffee beans roam,” Tim sang under his breath, skidding into the kitchen and wasting no time getting the coffee maker set. He stood with his nose buried in the carton for a few blissful minutes while it percolated, snorting the breath of life like cocaine. 

His parents wouldn't be home for a few days. They were off on a wine tasting excursion, the first vacation-like trip they had been on since financial collapse. Even now it wasn’t solely a leisure excursion; Tim knew they would spend every hour scouting for investors and rebuilding connections. 

Which was perfect for Tim’s dubiously legal purposes. 

Taking the freshly brewed pot with him Tim went into the downstairs study and made himself comfortable. Raising the office chair with practiced ease, connecting his laptop to the desktop and sliding into the system as easily a geriatric going down in the shower. 

He wouldn't be doing anything ambitious; not in his own house, on his parents business computer. No, he was doing something much simpler but infinitely more nerve wracking than his usual digital forays. 

Sir Edmund Dorrance, shady Hong Kong business mogul, charming high society socialite with a reputation for charity and generosity, self made millionaire. And most recent investor in Drake Pharmaceuticals. 

Tim hadn't paid much attention when the Drakes first began communicating with the man. Even when he became a shareholder, to the Drakes ecstatic relief, Tim didn't think much of it. But then he began bringing in his own people, funding his own personal projects, conscripting long time Drake Pharmaceutical employers. Tim knew his parents were more than happy to let the mans activities slide. 

Tim was not.

The printer whirred as he cycled through emails of status updates, expense reports, requests for approval of funding, minutes from several meetings the Drakes had attended and also from those they had not, and a host of other relevant documents. They had better be relevant, anyway; he was using up the last of the ink cartridges. 

Taking a slurp from the pot that was finally cool enough that it wouldn't blister his lips, Tim tapped through the personal correspondence between Dorrance and his parents. These he saved onto a flash drive, bought direct from Andromeda and so heavily encrypted he would have needed weeks to break through if he didn't have the codes already. The other documents he was printing out could be explained as interest in the business, something he had already been involved with. Personal emails, not so much. 

So flash drive, where space was at a premium, it was. 

By the time the last page was spewed from the sluggishly groaning printer, Tim had finished the first pot. While another was going, he gathered up the stack of papers, the newest still warm enough he clutched them to his chest and drooped a little at the feeling. Not quite as good as laundry fresh from a dryer, but pretty damn close. 

Which reminded him…

Once the papers were safely tucked in his hollowed out box spring he gathered up the clothes that had become a near permanent tumor on his armchair and descended to the cramped basement. 

It was fully finished, a blank white box with the water heater in one corner and the circuit box on the stairs. The floor was acid washed a pale bluish beige color, the lacquer over it nearly painfully shiny. 

He had set one corner with a punching bag and treadmill from Goodwill, a dozen cheap yoga mats glued together and spread out to form tumbling mats and a variety of cobbled together gymnastics equipment. Lengths of chain, rope and wire hung from the ceiling beams. He knew how to climb each kind barehanded and to catch himself from falling without immediately letting go at the pain. 

He had a few scars that proved the necessity of such practices. 

In another corner were a washer and dryer. Not the nice brand name kind from upstairs, but good enough for Tim. Humming tunelessly, he shoveled his clothes in the washer and dumped half a cup of baking soda in after them. The scented detergent was a sure fire way to get sniffed out at inopportune moments. And he had decided he preferred clothes that smelled of nothing, anyway. 

While the washer ran, followed forty minutes later by the dryer, he ran through a few drills. The punching bag wasn’t the best for the open hand strikes he preferred, but it was serviceable and by the time the dryer blared it was swinging from creaking beams. 

He was unashamed to admit to sitting on the floor half buried in dryer fresh clothes until they cooled. A wise man enjoyed the small pleasures of life, after all. 

Still, he eventually was forced to carry them back upstairs and deposit them in the same chair they had originally been in. He had a working, streamlined system and he was sticking to it.

And because he was going to be doing dirty work anyway, he didn't bother to shower off his light workout sweat and pulled on a grey camouflage hoodie and loose pants, tucking the ends into his favored pair of steel toed boots. Heavier than he would have preferred but there were only so many times a person could jam their toes on stone gargoyles before they flat out fell off. 

Or, so he assumed. 

Swinging through the kitchen to dump the still hot coffee into a thermos, he debated whether or not to eat a slightly mushy banana and deciding not to, he set off. 

It had been a long time since Tim had last done daylight surveillance. He found himself squinting resentfully at the sun multiple times, sincerely hoping the dollar store sunblock he’d smeared on would at least keep him from peeling. He gamely kept his camera focused on the back entrance to Drake Pharmaceuticals third research buildings side entrance. A side entrance that was not listed on the muddled blueprints he had managed to borrow from his fathers safe. 

He snapped pictures of all the four men surrounding an open cargo truck, two keeping watch on either end of the alley, and two busy loading unlabeled drums. 

Zooming in as far as could, he managed shots on the only man with a name tag, Arthur Pern, mid forties with a nervous set to his shoulders. Tim had seen him several times before preforming this exact same duty, or others similar to it. Unmarried, two children by the same woman, who were now living in Miami. No pets, little security on his studio apartment downtown. A good option should Tim need to steal a keycard. 

But that was not the objective of today. Todays objective was finally getting a glimpse of what were in those plain black drums. 

It was unlikely to be anything toxic, as they were not sealed completely shut and those loading them not wearing any protective gear. And they were a little too small for bodies. And because Tim couldn’t chance putting a tracker on the vehicle as he had no way of knowing whether whatever was inside was merely being transferred elsewhere or disposed of. 

Frankly, he was about to die of curiosity. 

That curiosity would be fulfilled today. He had a plan, a backup plan, and a backup to that backup plan. 

When the last drum was loaded and the driver behind the wheel, Tim hurried off his building and jogged down several blocks. 

The research center had been built at the very edge of a defunct warehouse district. It had been left to rot after goods started to be transported via trucking rather than the trains, as the station splitting through the the empty buildings showed.

Tim had watched the comings and goings through this particular side door for nearly a month, and the pattern was clear. Drums were transported along the empty roads between the warehouses before merging onto the highway beyond it. 

Plan A was simple, classic. A single piece of wood conveniently weathered the same grayish shade of the cracked asphalt with a dozen nails in it. By the time Tim reached the road the cargo truck was nearly on it. It rolled over the nails with a satisfying, explosive pop and jittered off to the side of the road. 

Setting onto his heels behind the corner of a cargo dock, Tim watched as the driver exited with much slamming of doors and cursing. He circled the truck, kicking the two blown tires and tugging at his hair. When he pulled out his phone Tim held his breath. 

This was probably the most unpredictable part of Plan A. Tim had never made jammers before and though his tests had worked perfectly, there was always the possibility that it would not do so here. Also the driver might find his string of bad luck suspicious. The man had a gun, and Tim most definitely did not. 

“Fuck!” The driver shouted, kicking the tire again and looking sorely tempted to hurl the phone. But after a few more attempts he shoved the phone back in his pocket, checked the locks and started walking.

Tim grinned and hugged his thermos, rocking on the balls of his feet where he crouched. Phase one complete!

Once the man was out of sight (and heading down the route lined with more jammers,) Tim put on gloves, sunglasses, medical face mask, pulled up the hood of his jacket and trotted to the truck. 

The lock was both manual and digital. One he had learned how to unlock through trial and error at a salvage yard three years ago. The other he had learned from a cronie of Andromeda. It took five minutes and a brief scare with the alarm, but eventually the door was rolled up and Tim was climbing in the back.

The first thing he noticed was the smell of industrial detergent, strong enough to burn the nose. The next was how spotlessly clean it was, for a transport truck. He would have willingly walked barefoot in it. Though, upon reflection, that was not saying much. He’d squished his way through some pretty nasty puddles in his day. 

Eight drums lined the back of the truck, secured in place with cord threaded through U hooks in the walls. Innocuous, a little scuffed, they were not on the surface suspicious. 

Tim walked to the nearest one, shoved open the ring clamp, took the crowbar secured to his backpack and fitted it beneath the lid. Paused. Set the crowbar down and pulled on another mask and set of gloves. Set it into place again. 

The lid popped off easily. Definitely not well sealed.

A little puff of dust wafted up as he shoved the lid up and onto the drum beside it. Standing on his toes, he peered over the edge and frowned. 

Ashes. Why would they be sneaking ashes out? Granted, eight drums was a lot of ash, but there were other ways of….

That, Tim thought dully, is a skull. 

More accurately, a fragment of jawbone, missing half its teeth. Melted metal from old fillings had dripped down between the teeth and into the pits in the bone. Its edges were charred, scratched, crumbled, as though someone had taken a hammer to them. 

Tim dropped to his knees, fingers still locked around the lip of the drum. Breathing too heavily, too fast, he shut his eyes and focused on getting the shakiness from his limbs and the spots from his eyes. 

He’d seen worse. He had seen much worse. He had seen a woman assaulted and bleeding and dying in an alley, too deep in shock to hear him calling for help. He had seen autopsy reports and crime scene photos. He’d seen a man barely out of his teens shot in the back of the head as he knelt pleading in an alley, brain and bone splattering the wall too quickly for the mind to understand.

Sure, it would take… take a lot of people to fill up eight drums, but surely some of them died of natural causes? And maybe this was the only one. Maybe this piece of bone was just a single mistake mixed in with the remains of perfectly harmless ashes from other things. 

“Okay, okay, okay.” Breath in, in, hold. Out, out, out. Empty and refill. Like recycling. In, out, out. “Okay.”

He had a job to do here. 

First, photos. Jumping out of the truck he took a picture of the back, license plate and cargo in the same shot. Back inside, he took closer shots of the drums and inside the one that was opened. Shots of the the bones fragment.

Then, swallowing something nasty and burning, he stuck his hand in and shifted. 

More pieces, hard, some sharp edged from breaking. Finger bones, what were they called, phalanges? A hard nob that might have been the end of a femur or some other large bone. A nearly burned away rib.

In, out, out. Out. God, he wanted out. 

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled and if it sounded shaky, well, no one was going to know. 

He took pictures. Put a piece of jawbone in a tripled up plastic bag and tucked it in his backpack. Put the lid back and cinched the clamp closed. Brushed away the spilled ash.

He didn't have the time to check the others. He didn't want to, either. The odds of anything else than what he had already being in them was too low. 

Rolling the door back down he didn't bother to reset the locks. It could fly open on the highway for all he cared. 

Making his way deeper into the warehouses, avoiding the few vagrants lurking in the shade, most of them incoherent, he found a fire escape and climbed without bothering to check where it led. There was a chimney stack he could put his back against and that was all the mattered. 

With his arms around his knees, he sat and thought. 

There was no way those remains had a good origin. Even were they from willingly donated cadavers, the method of disposal itself was illegal. There were channels that had to be gone through, protocols. Tests and papers and burial fees. 

Eight drums.

Tim tried not to do the math. Thankfully, he had never researched how much was left of a body after cremation. Though that would be changing tonight. For now, he'd enjoy the ignorance.

There were never enough donated cadavers. Never. First pick went to larger companies and universities. Drake Pharmaceuticals was neither. So either the bodies were bought off the black market or…

Or they hadn't been bodies at all. 

His parents didn't know. There was no way they would know. His father wouldn't stand for it, and his mother, while she did not flinch away from the occasional illegality, would never do something so risky. 

Dorrance. 

Fingers fisting into his pants, ignoring the way greasy ash smeared off his medical gloves into the fabric, Tim gritted his teeth. This was all Dorrance. He was doing something far worse than Tim would ever have expected. 

Tim would find out what this was. He would find out who these people were and what had happened to them and he would make sure Dorrance paid for it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for evidence of mass murder and human experimentation, biological weapons and alluded kidnapping. Also, improperly disposed of human remains
> 
> I'm afraid this might seem like a huge divergence from the last arc's storyline, but rest assured there is a lot going on behind the Bat-scenes, and both Tim and the Bats or focusing on other things. I'm considering making a compilation of stories with different POVs, where a lot of those scenes would be shown, and would appreciate some feedback on the idea, especially since I have none of that written.  
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed! Comment if you are so inclined


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tws down below

Dorrance was a big man. Broad, muscular, six feet if he were an inch. The white cane he carried was topped with white jade carved with subtle diamond shaped scales, the end covered with a blood red lacquer that seemed perpetually wet. Instead of wearing dark glasses, he displayed his milky blue eyes without a hint of discomfort, making up for the sightless stare with a hot honey smile.

His penthouse took up the entire top floor of an otherwise modestly designed high-rise apartment building. Tim had heard the man had bought the entire floor and gutted the six apartments it composed to form his massive home. 

Outside the window Gotham glittered, a thousand stationary fireflies with a few flying overhead, blinking lights and the occasional searchlight.

Swirling tonic water and orange juice in his glass, Tim pretended to admire the view while taking stock of the guards posted throughout the room through the reflection. There were several, some blending in amongst the caterers but most unabashedly obvious, from their visible gun holsters to their positions in front of doors.

Sipping thoughtfully, Tim considered how best to get something out of the evening besides a headache. 

The Drakes were moving through the room like suave dolphins, gliding charming and slick into groups of guests. 

The party was an intimate gathering of forty odd close friends, a crowd even further engorged by plus ones, caterers and the children of guests. As the latter of that list, Tim was one of a minority and certainly the youngest there. The few other children were at least two years his senior, and avoided him with the awkwardness born from previously snubbing a family that was now better off than them. 

This suited Tim just fine. His mother would have wanted him to crush his peers underfoot and grind in the fact that they had made a mistake in cutting ties so soon, but Tim had neither the inclination nor the opportunity. He had bigger fish to fry. 

The fish in question was Dorrances study, down the hall and clear across the room. The restrooms were that way, which was probably going to be his in, but there were also two guards at the entrance to the hall and another deeper down and hidden from view. There were also cameras. And the study door would be locked. 

Unfortunately the biggest obstacle was Dorrance himself. Tim was 95% certain the man would smell him if he so much as set foot in the study. 

Which meant he would have to be invited. 

So. Tonic water and orange juice, coupled with a good chug of oyster sauce and shot of vodka. 

His stomach was already churning. 

Twenty minutes later a trio of women walked down the hall, giggling and tipsy, followed shortly afterwards by an elderly man. Tim waited a few minutes, giving them time to settled into the two powder rooms. He was already sweaty and nauseous and it only took paying attention to the feeling to make himself genuinely sick.

Walking quickly, sedately enough to not appear gauche but fast enough to display urgency to anyone who payed attention, he made his way down the hall. As he hoped, both bathrooms were occupied. 

Waffling between the two, sweating and putting hand over his mouth, he edged further down the hall, peeking in doors. In seconds, the guard appeared. 

So far so good.

“You can’t be down here,” the man said. Stocky, young, of asian descent, likely Chinese. Very faint accent. Two guns. Professional, far more so than his age would imply. 

Tim looked at the man with only partly feigned misery. “Sorry, I’m… ugh, I feel sick and I was looking for a—-“

He gagged, clapping both hands over his mouth and glancing around frantically. The guard, faced with a child on the verge of puking, was just as frantic.

“The others are full?”

Gagging again (nice and wet, the kind that made other people gag in sympathy) he nodded frantically. 

“Shit,” the man muttered. With a last baleful look further up the hall, he gestured Tim to follow.

Success!

Tim had visited Dorrances apartment with his parents several times and so he knew there were only four bathrooms in the place. Two attached to the guest rooms further up the hall. One adjoining Dorrance’s suite. And one adjoining his study. 

The guard paused, glancing between two closed doors, but when Tim groaned quietly he made up his mind and went to the study door, angling to block the braille keypad. Inputing the code quickly, Tim was only able to tell it was twelve digits. Given enough time he might be able to crack it, but it was unlikely. Luckily, he didn't need to. 

Gripping his shoulder, the guard steered him through the study to the bathroom. Tim waited until they were almost there before lunging away and rocketing to the toilet, where he promptly vomited what felt like half his organs and a good chunk of his soul. 

With a clear view from the door, the guard muttered what sounded like a curse and then edged away. “Don’t touch anything and come out when you’re done,” he called.

Tim vomited more. 

Two minutes later he was sitting on the floor, shaky, sweaty and exhausted. This plan was proving a bit more difficult than he thought it would. He felt genuinely, one hundred percent awful. And the vodka, while effective for what he wanted, might have been a mistake. He was a little too hazy minded to be comfortable.

Still. He had a finite amount of time to get what he needed. 

The desk was immaculate, six antique fountain pens arrayed like an art piece in a crystal and mahogany holder, a blotter a least a century old at a angle beside them. The computer in comparison was sleek and modern and clearly a custom piece of equipment, not a hint of branding on its sleek white casing. Books, some braille editions and others not, lined the floor to ceiling shelves making up most of the walls, protected behind glass doors. There was no window, not being a necessity for a blind man, but the room was well aired by the two barely discernible vents in the ceiling, both coming from separate sources and both too small for even Tim to attempt to wriggle through. 

Blotting sweat and water from his quick rinse in the sink off his face with his sleeve, Tim walked to the desk and sat gingerly in the only chair in the room. It was massive, doubtless another custom piece, the leather butter smooth and velvet soft. 

Tim listened intently for any sign of the guards return before opening the first drawer. 

It and the one beside it held office supplies. Stapler, stationary, paperclips and colored tabs with embossed sigils on the corners. 

The one beneath them was filled with files. Tim ran his fingers slowly over the raised bumps on the labels, painstakingly deciphering them. He had been cramming to learn braille for five weeks, ever since Dorrance had tipped Tim’s radar towards paranoia, and he was not quite fluent in it. Certainly not fluent enough to read the contents of the folders themselves in the time he had. 

A quick check on his wristwatch had him wincing. He was pushing it. In the future he had better learn how to stop vomiting once he started. It wouldn't be a pleasant thing to practice, but it seemed necessary. After all, it was an effective ruse. 

The other drawers were even less informative. Sweating in nervousness now, Tim waffled between leaving right now or risking a few more minutes. Then the image of bones and ash being transported like refuse had him gritting his teeth and slithering beneath the desk. 

It was a sturdy thing, all polished oak, hand carved curlicues and tongue in groove assembly. Time had worn the edges round and smooth, made even the brass drawer pulls seem soft. 

What mattered to Tim was the slight discrepancy between the depth of the drawers and the desk as a whole. Hidden compartments were common enough in old desks, and practically a staple in Gotham. This one, however, was well hidden. There was no catch he could see, not even a crack to show where the compartment would emerge from. 

He shuffled on his knees in a circle around the desk, for once not caring whether his suit remained pristine in order to avoid a lecture or worse. He felt every bump and groove, eyes closed, breath bated. Time seemed to be flying by too quickly to function in and he nearly sobbed in pure relief when his fingertips caught on the faintest protrubence at the upper left corner of the desk. It was tucked just beneath the lip of the desktop and when he opened his eyes it looked like nothing more than a knot. But it gave beneath the steady pressure of his fingers, just barely, just enough to be unnatural. 

Putting his weight behind it, he pushed harder. 

With a nearly inaudible click, the bottom of the desk dropped several inches down into the knee well and Tim nearly fell on his face in his scramble to get closer. 

As his fingers nearly closed on the bright green file folders stacked within, he remembered his semi-serious fear that Dorrance would be able to smell him. It would have been a laughable thought several months ago, but he knew for a fact that the man could not only pinpoint where someone was, but were they had been. The sense best suited for determining that was smell, right?

He had to cover it. How?

Rifling quickly (but neatly) through the drawers again he found a bottle of lotion. High end, embossed label, all natural and organic. When he popped the lid it smelled of mint and something warm, sweet. Whatever it was, he rubbed it in his skin hurriedly. 

Then the folders. 

Three, two bright green, one black. Blank, save for the little bumps on the front. And the pages within were likewise blank. 

Tim dropped them onto the carpet and twisted his watch upside down, turning on the tiny camera hidden in the pin securing the hands of it with a series of knob twists. With his free hand he flipped quickly through first one, then another and then the last, He kept an eye out for anything falling free, any sort of trap that would show someone had shuffled through them. But he didn't see anything. 

Positioning them perfectly back in place, Tim clicked the compartment back shut. A mere second before the rumble of voices sounded outside.

Tim scrambled upright, froze at realizing he had left all the drawers open and the chair shoved back. 

The door opened. 

Tim hurled himself into the chair. 

Dorrance was a big man. He seemed even bigger looming in the only exit to the scene of Tims crime, cane planted between his feet and hands stacked lightly on the scaled top. His head was cocked, a bemused smile curving his mouth. 

“Timothy.”

Tim gulped. “Sir Dorrance.”

“My man tells me you were feeling unwell.” An expression of concern that seemed wholly genuine moved over his face like ripples in water. Soothing, a little hypnotic. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, thank you. I uh, apologize for intruding.” As quietly and subtly as possible, Tim attempted to nudged the nearest drawer closed. 

Dorrance smile sharpened and, with a single smooth movement, stepped into the room and kicked the door shut with his heel. Tim heard the sound of the electronic lock engaging with a sinking stomach. 

“What are you doing? Its rude to snoop through other peoples property.”

Tim shrunk deeper into the chair and wondered what would happen if Dorrance actually knew what he had done. Would he find himself reduced to ashes and stuffed in a vat with countless others? 

“I’m very sorry. I don’t know why I did that.” Not attempting to hide now, he shut the drawers methodically, using the opportunity to keep his eyes down and away from Dorrance’s milky but heavy gaze. “I just….”

Lies were not coming as easily as usual. Probably because the weight of encroaching death was weighing on his mind a tad heavier than usual. 

“Were you drinking, Timothy?” Dorrance asked. 

“Umm. No.”

The mans deep, rumbly chuckle was the equivalent of a full bear hug. If the bear was in fact real and scraping its claws along your back. Tim swallowed heavily and desperately willed his stomach not to attempt another needless evacuation. 

“Oh, Timothy. No need to lie, or be embarrassed. Believe it or not, I myself was your age once upon a time. And I remember my first foray into experimentation.” Teeth white as pearls but far sharper flashed in a grin. “And I suggest your next experiment be done with something more forgiving than vodka. Rum and coke, thats a good first drink.”

“Oh,” Tim said stupidly. This was not the direction he had been expecting the interrogation to turn. As Dorrance made his way to the liquor cabinet across from the desk, beside the door, Tim wondered wildly if he were about to be offered a drink. 

Thankfully, Dorrance only retrieved a single tumbler and poured two fingers of something golden and half opaque into it before taking an appreciative swig. 

Then he turned, propped himself the cabinet and faced Tim. 

“Though confessing your sins on your knees before my toilet was not the only thing you were doing. Was it Timothy?”

“No….” Tim licked dry lips and once again found himself looking away, at his hands twisting and marking in his lap. 

“What were you doing with my desk?” And this time there was no jovial, congenial undertone. In fact, there was nothing there at all. 

Tim hunched.

What lie would work? Not a straight out denial of any wrongdoing. It was too late for that. The truth would kill him. He was utterly sure of that. So, a compromise?

It was his best bet.

“It just. This is a an antique, right?” Dorrance cocked his head. Waited. Tim brushed a hand carefully over the desktop, lightly, sneaking brief glances from beneath the fringe of his hair. “Its a beautiful piece. 1800s?”

“A good eye.” 

“My parents have a great interest in history. Granted, much older history than this, but I do have an appreciation for antiques. And I know a lot of the surviving pieces like this have hidden compartments and….” he did not even remotely need to enhance the nerves that had him gulping, hesitating. “And I was bored and was trying to see if this one did too.”

The last inch of liquor swirled in the tumbler as Dorrance pinned him in place, face expressionless. Tim was abruptly aware of the ticking of the single clock in the room, an iron creation the size of his head situated on the corner of the desk, and the feeling of air wafting from the vents and chilling his sweat covered face. 

“And did you?”

Tim nodded unsteadily. “I think so.”

Simply standing took almost more strength than Tim could gather, and drifting his fingers across the desk even more so. But when his fingertips caught on wood he met the mans unseeing eyes. “Here on the left side?”

Dorrance drained the last of his drink and smiled. “You’re a clever boy, aren’t you?”

Tim took his hand off the carved curlicue and tucked it in his pocket. “So I’ve been told. Thank you, sir.”

“Do you investigate for secret compartments often, Timothy?” Dorrance asked with deceptive joviality. 

Tim scratched the back his neck, prickly with sweat and cold with receding adrenaline. “I should probably invoke the fifth on that, sir, if you don’t mind.”

Dorrance barked a laugh. And his posture changed; shoulders dropped, legs widened and bent at the knees, head tipped down. Tim stared and thought, I’ve seen this before. 

A tiger at the zoo, well fed and satisfied, eyeing the people on the other side of the bars with amusement. Yellow green eyes glinting with the knowledge of how bones felt crunching between teeth. Knowing it could revisit that sensation whenever it wished. 

“A clever boy, indeed,” Dorrance murmured. 

Then then the door was open and Dorrance was ushering him out, hand on his shoulder and charming host persona back in place.

The footage from his watch was clear and sharp, if a little shaky from being taken from his wrist. Tim went through it and collected stills from every page, adjusting and enhancing until they were as clear as possible. Then, with a braille to english dictionary balanced on his knees, red highlighter in hand and printed pages spread over his mattress, he set to work. 

It was tedious and time-consuming. He worked through the night, drinking what felt like his body weight in coffee and carefully hoarded energy drinks. The floor around his bed piled steadily with crumpled cans and dirty mugs and the occasional bag of chips.

No matter how enhanced the pictures, there were still paragraphs and pages that were unintelligible. The cost of flipping so rapidly through them. And there were more that were not any form of braille at all. The most he could theorize them being were raised images, too complex for him to grasp at his current level. 

What was clear was that the research being done was not remotely legal. 

A virus. Worse, a virus first developed during the the second World War by the Nazi’s. It had not been completed and weaponized then, thank God, but Dorrance was funding research into its completion now. 

His motivation for doing so was not given, only that he was close to succeeding. 

Tim huddled under his duvet and chewed his nails. This was extremely bad. This was the worst case scenario. How was he supposed to deal with this? It was Drake Pharmaceuticals. The paper trail was muddled, the Drake and Dorrance interests so intertwined it was impossible to separate them at this point. If he went directly to the authorities, he knew his parents would be behind bars alongside Dorrance and would likely stay there. 

He couldn't do that to them. Not after everything he had already put them through. He just… He couldn't. He couldn't. 

But he also couldn't risk this atrocity continuing while he search for evidence to absolve them of culpability. This was a war crime in the making, this was a tool for genocide. Whether Dorrance was developing it to sell or use himself didn't matter. Tim couldn't let it continue. They could not complete it. 

Gathering the papers and cinching them into a water tight file holder, he set it aside to take to the pool later. There was a hollow beneath one of the tiles on the patio that would hold it nicely. For the moment he went into his bathroom and removed the handle of the toilet, putting the tiny chip with its footage into the hollow in the back and painting over it with his mothers chrome nail polish to hold it in place and disguise it from a cursory inspection. 

Then he made a fresh pot of coffee and went back to his already compiled data. Official blueprints for the three research facilities, the additions to the blueprints that he had managed to pencil in from observation. The warehouses that held supplies. The suppliers themselves. Guard rotations. Employee list, both official and unofficial. Truck routes. Timetables. Schedules. Menus. 

Everything. 

Settling back in place, Tim started planning. 

Tim walked into his first class more dead than alive and looking like something run over, buried, dug up again, run over some more and then stuffed in the uniform of a 6th grader.

“What the ever loving fuck, Drake?!” Steph snarled, shoving his shoulders with the palms of her hands hard enough to bruise. “Where the fuck were you?!”

She had more freckles, Tim noted. At least ten. And… “Did you cut your hair?”

“Tim!” Looking a millisecond away from slapping him, she grabbed the strings of his hoodie and towed him right back out of the classroom. 

Tim had never managed to enrage a person before. Or at least, not as himself. Plenty of people had yelled at him over the internet. But Stephanie was the only person who had ever had an overt emotional reaction to him at all. It was strange. Novel. Even if Tim didn't know how to deal with it, it was weirdly validating that he existed solidly enough in her reality to alter her emotional state. 

Even if she was going to punch him in the face until there was no more face left. 

Slamming him back-first through the door of the girls north wing restroom, she backed him directly into a stall and kicked it shut, shooting a murderous glare at the girl washing her hands who was staring at them with a slack jaw. 

“Where,” she started, poking him sharply in the sternum, “Were. You?”

“Home,” Tim said blandly. And cupped a hand over his chest protectively, turning to the side. “Ow, Steph.”

“Don’t you ‘ow’ me, you douchebag! No call. No text. Not even a fuckin’ smoke signal!”

“To be a far, a smoke signal wouldn't work very well in all the smog,” he mumbled and realized immediately that was the exact wrong thing to say.

“Fuck you!” She yowled, at a pitch that rang off the bathroom tiles and made his eardrums vibrate like a violin string. “Fuck you, Drake! You’re an asshole! I thought you were dead, or, or, kidnapped, or, fuck, something! I don’t even know where you live. No one knew where you were. And you have the gall to play it off as a joke? Fuck you to infinity and beyond, just crawl down the shitter to where you belong, you enormous shit!”

And she stood there, chest heaving, face blotchy and eyes teary and Tim. Tim didn't know what to do with that. How was anyone supposed to respond to that? 

But despite the situation, something confused and small and wary inside him warmed.

“I was really at home,” he said. Hesitantly, he put a hand on her shoulder and patted awkwardly. She was bony but surprisingly muscular. The fabric of her retro Garfield t-shirt was soft. “I was sick and my phone died. I just, didn't think to plug it back in?”

Steph snorted mucus back up her nose and scowled. But didn't slap away his hand, which he tentatively identified as a good sign.

“How sick? With what? I called your house and no-one picked up.”

Tim blinked sluggishly. He hadn't expected her to go that far. She had called the landline once and only once. She had never repeated what his mother had said to her, but Tim could guess. He had just been surprised she even wanted to talk to him after that. 

“They were out of town.”

“Who took care of you then?” She demanded, sweeping him with a long glare and grimacing. Tim wished he had taken a shower before dragging himself to school. 

“I’m twelve, not six, Steph.”

“You’re a disaster, is what you are,” she grumbled resentfully. But he could feel her softening under his hand, could see the tension leaving the corners of her eyes. 

“I’m sorry for… um, worrying you? I was fine.”

Scrambling to come up with a plan to stop a madman from weaponizing a Nazi virus and destroying a good portion of the world. Which, to be fair, would make anyone sick. 

“Next time pick up your friggin’ phone, sheesh.”

“No more hard swearing?” 

“I can still kick you in the balls, Drake. Don’t push it.”

Tim wisely did not push. 

“Can I leave the bathroom now? I really don’t want to get suspended.”

Steph scoffed. “As though you would be, teachers pet.”

Nevertheless, she unbolted the stall and escorted him out the door. They walked slowly down the empty hall. They were already late, there was no reason to hurry back to get a scolding. 

“So… How’re you feeling?”

“Better than I look, probably.”

“Oh. Thats good. Cause you look about as good as dog shit.”

“Thanks Steph.”

“No prob’.”

Tim blinked down at his feet as they dragged over scuffed, ancient linoleum the color of oil dampened ash and old milk, realizing he was wearing two different shoes. Well, they were both the same brand and too dirty to tell they were different colors. If anyone noticed, he’d say it was a fashion statement. His mother had worn bicolored shoes several times. 

Just as he was reaching for the door to his class, Steph slung her arm along his shoulder and pressed closed. Tim’s skin crawled and goosebumps popped up as her hot, wet breath fluttered over his ear.

“Oh, and Tim?”

Swallowing a lump that was born of dread, he cleared his throat. “Yes, Steph?”

“You go AWOL again and don’t give me a call to let me know? I’ll stick you in the school mascot and bury you in the infield.”

Tim nodded frantically. It was definitely not an empty promise. “Sure. Yep. I will do that thing, Steph, promise.”

With a last, deceptively friendly squeeze, she let go and opened the door, ushering him in with a smirk. “Thats great, thank you for the consideration Timothy.”

It was good to be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for vomiting, biological weapons, virus's and nazis
> 
> Dorrance is probably way OOC, but I'll be honest; I never read the entire run with him. I actually never read any run in its entirety, because when I was younger I would have been mocked horribly for it. A family member was mocked for their interests and they pretty much dropped them in self defense, so no way was I risking losing min! So, I read what I could at the library and such, which means I don't have a good handle on Dorrance and a lot of other characters. Apologies for that!
> 
> Comment if inclined, otherwise just have fun!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous warnings apply

The research lab at the edge of Gotham, where it gave way to what might as well be tundra for how bare it looked to Tim’s city dwelling eyes, was first on his list. 

It was larger than the other two, but not as well staffed. It was by Tim’s estimation little more than a storage facility. There were ten guards on duty at a time, two on camera’s inside and eight walking both the grounds and the building itself. 

Fourteen scientists. Two cooks. Nine janitorial staff that looked more like hired muscle than anything else. The drivers were well known and vetted at the gate whenever they arrived and left, the vehicles inspected. 

A keycard and personalized input codes were required to get through any of the doors. Cameras covered almost all points. The windows could only be opened from the inside and a signal would light up in the camera surveillance room (a place Tim still did not know the location of) if they were opened. 

There was only one option. 

Tim had told Steph he wouldn't be at school for a few days. After a week of silence and then only four days back in school, she was less than impressed, and was oddly sour when he told her he would be with his parents, who had returned from their trip and would be staying for a few days. They were not actually set to arrive until the day after tomorrow, but Steph had not asked for details and so he could excused for not volunteering. Not that he wouldn't have lied anyway. 

He had planned everything in excruciating detail. It had a very, very wide margin for error, all of it because he did not have an accurate blueprint and very little in the way of knowledge in regards to cameras. He was going it half blind and this would take time, more time than he really had to spare. And the more time it took, the greater the risk of dying a horrible, tragic, too soon death. 

He probably should have made a will and specified he wanted to be cremated. He had seen a dozen too many bodies bounced around to be comfortable leaving his intact.

Shaking off the image of a very tiny coffin being driven all through Gotham, he went through his pack for the third time. 

Penlight. Extra batteries. His smallest camera and a backup in the form of a burner phone with its audio output disabled. Energy bars. Caffeine pills. Jammers and an EMP he honestly was not confident in. Small jewelers tools in a little case. Electricians tape. Four quart jars. Gloves, masks, bandages, industrial disinfectant, dentist tools, and a host of other small things.

Steadily he went through the list, counting items. It was far less than he would have wanted to bring, but there was only so much he could carry. He could only hope everything else he needed would be inside.

He had already tucked his hair inside a wig net and sealed it around his head with glue, pulling a cap over it. And he had spent a good half hour going over his clothes with a lint roller despite getting them fresh out of a shipping bag immediately before hand. He was not going to leave any incriminating trace evidence if this went bad. 

Not satisfied but knowing he was on the verge of losing his nerve, Tim crept to the edge of the roof.

“Alright. Okay.” Slapping his face in the manner of athletes and deciding that was not a method of motivation that worked for him, Tim jumped in place. “Okay. This will work. It will definitely work and not end with me in a vat. Okay.”

With a last deep breath, he leapt over the side of the building. 

His gloves were thick, with nice grippy pads on palm and fingers, but dexterity was a little more difficult. And so he wasn't surprised when one hand slid free of the power cables. Left dangling from one hand, only the knowledge that someone would likely shoot him kept the shriek behind his teeth. 

Shaking, he managed to get his other hand on the cable and carefully pulled himself up. With a jerk he tossed his legs up and hooked ankles over the cable. It bounced from all his movements and he hung there with bated breath, waiting to see if anyone had noticed the inevitable noise and motion. When no one came at him shouting or shooting, he hesitantly pulled himself along. 

The power lines extended over the research centers fence and into the street beyond it. Which was where Tim had come from. The building itself was a good three hundred feet away and his arms burned savagely by the time he bumped into the wall. 

Freezing once more, feeling exposed with his back to the ground where all the guards and guns were, he delicately maneuvered himself over the lip of the roof and dropped carefully onto the graveled top. 

Air conditioning unites loomed out of the fog in hulking dark shapes. One of them was running, loud and rattling. There were two stairwells at either end of the rectangular building but there were cameras at each and doubtless more inside. The vents for the air conditioners were likewise too small. 

Avoiding the cameras and keeping low, Tm made his way to the opposite side of the roof and peered over. 

Six feet down was a vent. It was barely wide enough for him and maybe not even that. Nothing was coming from it currently, but Tim still felt his skin crawl. 

It was the emergency venting from the labs and he did not want to think about what had gone through it. Theoretically, the air was completely sterilized at stations throughout its route, but what if something had survived? They were developing a deadly, fast acting virus after all. 

But he didn't have a choice. 

Securing two lines to the roof, he climbed down and hung in front of the vent. All in all, it took only fifteen minutes to unscrew it and disable the alarm. He tucked the screws into a plastic bag that he taped to the back of the vent cover. 

Getting in was the difficult part. In order to avoid detection he needed to replace the cover. The easiest method would be backing into the vent but there was no way Tim was backing blind through it and running into who knew what. So he pulled on a gas mask, tied a cord to the vent cover, hoped for the best, and wriggled in. 

It was tight. Tight and pitch black. With his arms in front of him he couldn't pull them back for leverage, couldn't even get his elbows under him. He lay there for a moment, legs sticking out of the vent and face pressed into the cold metal, trying desperately not to cry. What if he got stuck? What if he got stuck and couldn't get out, couldn't let anyone know he was there? He would just die there, like a rat in a chimney, trapped and suffocating and starving. Would stay there until the stink of his rotting body alerted people to his presence and maybe not even then. 

He had to do this. He had to do this. He couldn't let the authorities take his parents and he couldn't let Dorrance complete the virus and he couldn't let more people die. He had to do this. He had to and he could.

Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself forward by his fingertips. 

The cord pulled tight and behind him he heard the clatter of the vent cover scraping back into place. 

Blindly he duct taped the cord to the roof of the vent with tape he’d attached to the rubber back of his glove. He had no way of know whether the vent had settled into place crooked, or if the anchor of the duct tape was strong enough to hold it in place for however long he would be here. 

Shuddering, he finally clicked on the penlight tied to his sleeve and began dragging himself forward, the cord attached to his belt dragging his pack behind him. 

It seemed like years of inching carefully forward. The air was stale even through the gas mask, and he was thirsty. Thankfully there were no alarms, there was a stretch of three feet with spikes pointing back towards him like the teeth of a snake and he spent a long while cutting them off with metal shears and filling what was left smooth. He put the spikes in another baggy and tuck them into his sleeve as yet another bulky, weighty discomfort. 

Eventually he reach a sharp turn, which was a painful thing to navigate, but he managed. And then there was a fan and a boxy space behind it housing its motor that looked bafflingly massive after the tight shaft. 

It took ages to unscrew the grill covering the fan, dismantling the fan itself and then popping out the grill behind it. It clattered into the boxy space and Tim was so desperate for a chance to breathe he tumbled right after it without waiting to see if he had been heard. 

From there it was a simple matter to open the access panel on the right that let people maintain the motor. And then he was in a small, barren little room no bigger than a closet. 

He huddled on the floor and shook for an embarrassingly long time. 

An energy bar, caffeine pill and chugging the only bottle of water he had brought later and he was prepared to continue. 

Cracking the door open, he swiveled the tiny dentist mirror in search of cameras. There were none and so he slunk carefully out. 

It was almost disappointingly normal. A hallway like any other, ugly floor, bland walls, cheap plastic ceiling panels covering the florescent tube lighting. The doors interspersed down the hall were unlabeled. 

Tim listened for any approaching guards or scientists and crept forward. 

The laboratories were in the basement, the upper floor devoted to offices, storage and the kitchen and canteen. He ducked into a women's restroom at the sound of approaching voices and the static of a radio. He crouched on a toilet in one of the stalls until the sounds were long gone and, before creeping out again, refilled his water bottle. 

At the far end of the building from where he entered was the elevator and stairs to the basement levels. Both required a keycard and passcode and were under the watchful glare of three cameras. Tim crouched out of sight and waited. 

At two thirty was the shift change. The guards in the surveillance room would be distracted, would be punching in and signing out, switching accounts. The perimeter and interior guards would not switch out for another half hour but were at their most relaxed. 

Clicking on his most reliable short range jammer, he sprinted for the doors. The cloned keycard he had obtained through minor breaking and entering four days earlier worked perfectly and the code that had stupidly been written on the back correct, but Tim wasted no time congratulating himself while continuing the full out run downwards, pack thumping heavily between his shoulders. 

Another door, heavier and slow to open no matter how hard he pushed. Then two yards and another door, a dim, massive space beyond that. Heart hammering, breath wheezing with exertion, Tim looked frantically around and spotted a janitor closet, hurling himself into it with a stagger and clicking off the jammer. 

He checked his watch. 81 seconds. Long, too long for comfort. Had the guards noticed? Would they come to investigate, or shrug it off as a bug in the system? 

Crouching amidst empty mop buckets, bleach containers and rolls of biohazard bags, Tim prepared a blitz offensive against whoever was bound to open the door any second. 

Five minutes. Ten. Another six for good measure. 

Very, very carefully, he cracked the door and angled the mirror out the bottom, the metal framing scraping against the floor.

No one. 

“Okay. Thats— yeah.”

During his mad dash to a hiding place he had not had the opportunity to take in the room. It was easily two hundred feet long and a quarter of that deep. Though most were off there were lights, large encased fluorescents that could be sprayed down and disinfected. The walls, floor and ceiling were all smooth, air tight. There were only two vents; one to bring in air, and another to pull it out. Sprinklers, rather than being embedded in the ceiling, were strung on their pipes externally. Which was very good news for Tim. 

What caught is attention most was the wall across from the single entrance. 

It was four feet thick and massive glass panels twenty feet in diameter were spaced at equal distances from each other. On the other side of the glass were separate laboratories, production stations and rooms that looked like nothing so much as an autopsy theater, closed doors lining the walls like a morgue. 

Tim swallowed and edged reluctantly closer. 

Each unit was separate to itself, he discovered, with no crossover between them. To enter or exit one would need to pass through decontamination airlocks, complete with timed locks. 

He avoided the morgue unit and after a moments consideration walked to on in the far left corner that was filled with cubicles and file cabinets, strangely office-like for an underground facility manufacturing a deadly virus. 

The keycard worked and he clutched it for luck as he punched in the code, exhaling explosively when it worked. Thank God separate codes were not required for each door. 

Once inside he wasted no time ransacking it. There was no need for subtlety here; he forced cabinets, plugged drives into every computer to force downloads, took photos of every file he flipped through. Only a few were folded tightly and tucked into his back. 

He saw autopsy reports. Case files. Saw photos of… things he hadn't thought would actually be here. 

There was no time to got through everything here, to study it. He only saw a fraction. Whether or not he was collecting any evidence that would exonerate his parents he wouldn't know until he had an opportunity to read it. 

It took three hours to collect it all. The day workers would be arriving in two. He had no more time.

Next he went grimly through the four laboratories, not touching the cold storage were vials upon petri dish upon slide were arranged. Taking a quart jar from his pack, he proceeded to smear the contents throughout the room, cringing from the smell. In the vents, all over anything the looked to hold the virus, around the doors. Three were empty by the time he was done with the labs.

Then there was morgue. 

He… tried. He tried but no matter how much he sneered at himself he couldn't set foot in it. He settled four dumping half the other quart over the threshold. 

Then it was a simple matter of disengaging the sprinklers and manually turning on the vent fan to bring in fresh air, disengaging the ability to close them from a different location. With the last half of the quart he left a thick smear to the exit, stopping it seven feet away and setting a fuse into it that he unspooled behind him as he started the jammer and backed into the little antechamber. 

Napalm, even a home-brewed variety, would take this place down to its foundation. It would be hot enough to destroy whatever virus lurked in those cold storage cabinets, kill it completely.

Crouching there, he spent longer than he had with his head between his knees, breathing heavily, lighter in hand. 

This was the only thing he could do. This wasn't the right thing, but it was the only option he had. The police, the government, Batman, all of them would consider his parents culpable unless proven otherwise. This the only thing he could do. 

He lit the fuse and ran. 

He was out the door at the top of the stairs when the alarm sounded, ear-piercingly shrill. By the time he was wriggling desperately back through the vent he could hear the clamoring of voices and more alarms and approaching sirens. When he kicked the vent out and scrambled desperately for his lines smoke was thick and foul smelling as it curved towards the sky. 

While he was shimmying as fast as possible back along the power line something in the building exploded, the concussive force of it whiting out all noise and shaking the ground. The building shuddered, putting slack in the cable and Tim couldn't swallow down a yelp as it sagged, dropping his several feet downwards before pulling taut again and leaving him bouncing and clinging with all his strength. 

Once he was over the fence and above the street he dropped, landing hard and awkwardly. But numb legs and no air couldn't stop him from running. And he kept running until he couldn't hear the sirens anymore. 

There was a possibility that the fire would initially be viewed as an accident. But it would not last long.

Tim had a short window of opportunity to finish off the buildings before security quadrupled and the project was exported entirely, so he didn't pause. He jogged through the city, hopping buses and trams. He stopped off at one drop point and switched his pack out for an identical one. 

He stopped at a donut shop for breakfast and some real coffee to wash down a quarter of a caffeine tablet. His heart raced unpleasantly, but he felt a bit more alive afterwards. 

The next building was clear across the city. By the time he hauled himself onto a rooftop two streets over and peered through binoculars at the parking lot, he saw the visible security was already twice what it usually was. Scientists were a confused jumble outside the doors, some being bared entrance while others were attempting to leave. 

Tim pulled a (stolen) laptop over his lap and nibbled on a slightly squashed fritter as he set to work. 

This facility was perhaps the most vital to the operation. Until the one in ashes already, this one seemed geared exclusively towards R&D, with the one still standing serving as a testing facility. Those inside were likely scrambling to get the virus stable and ready for transport, while the other was doubtless removing all test… subjects. 

Tim wasn't prepared to hit that one with the same finality as the other two. He didn’t think there were any living people there, as the schedule for delivery of anything larger than kitchen supplies was still a good two weeks off, and the ashes had been taken away over a week ago. So, hopefully, there was no one there. 

While keeping an eye on the R&D facility he ordered from every food delivery place in a twenty mile radius of the testing facility, the largest orders being placed in the central ring so that with any luck they were arrive at roughly the same time. He used information from one of Dorrances many credit cards to pay, both because he was reluctant to steal from anyone else and because it gave his petty pleasure to cause the man any inconvenience he could. 

Sneaking to an alley across from the R&D facility, Tim waited. 

He didn't need to be at the testing site to know when forty plus delivery vehicles began to descend upon it like a reverse form of locust; two thirds of the guards at this facility ran to their own vehicles and peeled away, most of them the muscular Asian types who looked most competent. Leaving a herd of disgruntled scientists to slink in or out or just remain where they were while the security personal scrambled to create a new plan of defense. 

Tim didn't give them an opportunity to create one before slipping through the parking garage and up a garbage chute. 

He had been in much better smelling places….

It let out in a locked room holding janitorial carts, lined up like sleeping cows in painted squares. The lock was easy to force, being neither electronic or combination. 

Its only a matter of time before his ruse is discovered and so he wastes none of it making his way throughout he building. The labs here are above ground, on the top floor, which makes it far simpler for Tim.

He enters restrooms, storage rooms, even closets, hunting down every vent he can find. Some are large enough to enter, but for most he is forced the reach as far back as possible, punching holes into the metal and pouring his home-brew around them, taping incendiary devices of various makes above the puddle. Most are in the ceiling, directly beneath the second floor, and with any luck it will burn straight up. He also taped remote detonated smoke bombs as close to every smoke detector he could find while still keeping them from view. 

From there he exits through the trash shoot, climbs a neighboring building, and with a running leap crashs atop the facility roof. 

The previous night he had spent shuttling gallons of diesel and he heaved a gulping sigh of relief to find them lined up neatly by the water tank, exactly where he had left them. It have taken him hours to pry open the hatch at the top of the tank, but it was well worth all the effort, bruises and broken tools now as he poured fueled into it and cringed from the fumes. 

The facilities lower levels were delivered water directly from the street, like every other building, but the laboratories in the top story were served by the water tank. It too was filled by city water, but it was run through a purifier set up a few yards from the tank. 

And all the upper floor was serviced via the tank water. Even the sprinkler system. 

Leaving the emptied jerry cans where he dropped them, Tim climbed back to the neighboring rooftop and spent several minutes slumped against an air conditioner, panting. 

Well past noon now, the sun was beating down, turning the gravel and tar roofing tacky beneath him as Tim lay on his belly, peering over the edge at the facility. From here he could see the two main entrances, employees still milling in an out. No driver or transports yet. All the material was still inside. 

This. This was far more frightening than the facility on Gothams outskirts. There were people here. He knew what sort of insulation, what sort of material had been used in the construction of the facility. He knew first hand, through copious experimentation, how quickly it would burn. It was hardly up to code, after all, despite what the certificates claimed. This was a death trap waiting to snap shut. 

Closing his eyes and hoping desperately for the best outcome, he pressed the button on his repurposed key-fob. 

The shrill scream of the alarms were audible over traffic and all the way to Tim’s perch, and the reaction was immediate. Scientists, guards, workers, all poured from the building, running to the sidewalk and even further. A few braver individuals tore from the parking garage with squealing tires. After news of how thoroughly his last target burned, it seemed none of these people were willing to risk staying.

Tim waited, waited, watched until no more people emerged. Surely all of them were out? Surely no one wanted to risk dying.

Fingers of his free hand dug into the graveled rooftop, the pressure forcing his nails back in their beds with a sharp ache that he hardly felt. Dropping the key fob, he removed the transmitter from his back pocket and clicked it. 

This time his eyes stayed open. 

It took one minute and sixteen seconds for the smoke to appear, curling thick and noxious. Four minutes and twenty-nine seconds for the first flame to become visible, flickering through the windows. Within ten minutes windows were bursting open in a shower of dully reflecting shards and billowing black smoke. The heat was immense, nearly a smothering pressure. 

Any hope of doing more than containing the fire was gone by the the first fire truck arrived. They knew it too, not even bothering to focus on the building already collapsing into itself. 

Tim had to pry himself away before the police swarming the streets managed to barricade them. For all the fire he had created in the last twenty hours, he felt cold as he stumbled shakily through alleys and side streets, hood up and head down, quivery fingers tucked into his pocket and fisted in the material over his crawling stomach. 

This was the only thing he could do. This was all he could do.

As he had spent so much time in closets the past few hours, Tim made camp in his tub. It was colder than his usual haunt, and there was far more light than the ideal murk he craved, but with a cushion of all his bath towels and the duvet from his bed (Egyptian cotton, dark grey, fluffy as a blow dried duckling) it was comfortable enough. 

And it was also within lunging distance of the toilet, which Tim had made use of more times than he was willing to keep track of in the past hour. Either it was all the crap he had just put into his body or karma had descended upon him with prompt viciousness. 

He swore he had seared his throat raw. 

Which meant that its soreness had absolutely nothing to do with crying. None. At. All. 

His parents had arrived home two hours ago, just after Tim had finished burning evidence in the incinerator. All his data, collected from the first facility, had been stashed elsewhere. He hoped no one was going to connect the crime to him or his parents, but he wasn't willing to risk having any of that found on the premises. 

Something shattered downstairs, followed by a howl of obscenities and more sounds of destruction.

Tim fluffed his duvet cocoon higher over his head and closed his eyes. 

His mother had spent barely ten minutes in the house before whirling away again, already arranging shareholder meetings, press conferences, meetings with insurance agents. She likely wouldn’t set foot in it again for the next week or more. 

His father….

Tim cringed as the yelling became ominous silence. 

Janet Drake had unequivocally ordered her husband to remain home. He was a liability, a loose cannon. His presence would only complicate things. She couldn’t deal with him and this latest catastrophe at the same time. 

And it was true enough. Jack Drake was the face of the company but Janet was its eyes, ears, hands and spine. And the face of the company had been slipping for a year. 

It was Tim’s fault, of course. His father had been raised to hold his liquor well, to use it as lubricant for his charm. But there was limit to how much he could consume before that charm became mean inebriation.

He had never crossed over the limit. Never. 

Not until Tim took everything from them. 

Now there were nights filled with sullen silence or shouting, both echoing with equal weight off the sides of empty bottles and crystal glasses. 

Tim covered his ears as another shattering crash traveled up the stairs. God, this would be so much easier if he could regret it. He regretted killing someone, he regretted the hurt he caused, but he couldn't quite regret his actions. Jason was alive, strange and gone and broken, but alive. And he would do it again, every rancid awful choice, if he had to. 

What kind of son was he? What kind of person could destroy his own families pride and legacy and not even have the decency to own up to it, to apologize and mean it?

A very bad person, he decided as the rage below vanished and ugly, horrible sobbing replaced it. 

He curled tighter, ducked lower, and tried to drown it all out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be a bit shorter than previous chapter. Also, not the best at writing these kinds of scenes, but eh.  
> Everything I have after this is all patchy scenes and I am struggling to stitch them together. Hopefully it won't impact my upload speed; fingers crossed!  
> As always, hoped you enjoyed! Comments are always appreciated, but not necessary, so don't sweat it if you don't feel so inclined.  
> Stay safe and have fun!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wild adult appears

“Why is it every time I see you you look twice as crappy as you did before?” Steph asked. 

Tim rested his forehead against his locker and shrugged delicately, attempting not to jar his brain as it already seemed inclined to crawl out his ears. “Puberty?”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “Its aaalllll hormones. Not, like, terrorists attacking your company and blowing it all up.”

“Burning it down, to be accurate.”

“Oh my fucking God, Tim!”

He cracked his eye enough to see her, hands thrown in the air but wild eyed, frazzled, looking almost scared. He winced. There was an unusual bubble of quiet around them, the only words spoken too hushed to make out as people stared and pointed and whispered. 

“Tim, your company was attacked! I know people tried to say they were accidents, but that only lasted for a single fart. What happened?”

And God, he wanted to tell her. It choked him, how bad he wanted to tell her. It would be so easy too. He could pull her to some empty corner, lean close and whisper it all and she would never breath a word. Never betray him if he asked. 

But he couldn't and it hurt. He couldn't do that to her, risk her. If any of this ever came to light, she would be an accessory at best. At worst, Dorrance could outright kill her. 

“I don’t know what happened.”

The scared shadow at the back of her eyes didn't leave. 

“Are you and your parents safe?” She asked, shuffling closer. She smelled like mens deodorant, junk food and water melon shampoo. When her shoulder knocked his he found himself leaning into it, ducking down to hide in her shadow. 

“Yeah,” he whispered and didn't even care when his voice cracked. “We’re safe.”

“This is fucked up, Tim-Tam my man.” 

“You have no idea, Steph-ford Hives.”

“Thats gross, ew. I call you something cute, and thats what you come back with?”

Tim snorted, shrugging. 

As the bell rang they stayed in place, awkwardly slumped together with their backs to the hall and all the students bustling off to classes. 

“Is there, like, anything I can do? I could try making a tuna casserole or something.”

God, he loved her. 

“It was a few buildings, Steph, not a relative. We aren't in mourning.”

“A few buildings,” she mocked nasally. They sluggishly moved down the hall, still conjoined at the shoulder. Her hair swung against the side of Tim’s head, unpleasantly reminiscent of skittering insect legs. “Rich boy.”

“Not really. I am comfortably middle-class,” he replied in his best humble prep impression. 

“Don’t even. You have a trust and a college fund. You know what most people have? Debt. Debt is what most people have.”

Tim did not, in fact, have a college fund anymore. Or a trust fund for that matter. Those had been the first to go during the commencement of his first felony. 

“I sense a bit of resentment,” he intoned and patted her head as condescendingly as possible. “There there, work hard and your dreams will come true.”

She shot out a deadly pointy elbow, but the fear had receded. The familiar lopsided smile was stretched into as close to a sneer as she could manage and Tim grinned at it. “You’re an asshole.”

“I try.”

Despite splitting for classes, Steph spent the rest of the day shadowing him. Chasing away the callus curiosity of their peers with a grin that had too many teeth to be anything but a blatant threat, she seemed determined to keep him within arms reach. She even followed him into the faculty wing despite her notorious hatred of its residents. 

It was bizarre and intermittently terrifying but oddly soothing. Tim imagined it was how a flock of sheep would feel while being bullied about by a massive golden sheep dog, snapping at their hooves and pouncing on their backs, but ultimately keeping them from being an hors d’oeuvre for passing wolves or a smear on the road.

It didn't occur to him until later that she had never asked why he was absent during the attacks. 

At home the atmosphere was fragile. The house was generally empty, his mother and father both at work when the latter was sober. And when he wasn't he spent most of his time out, finding company to bring with him to the bottom of a bottle. 

It had been two weeks since the fires and Tim spent every one of them as visible to any potential watchers as possible. It chafed to come home in the evening and actually stay there. Even his internet presence he kept innocuous, spending countless hours playing mind numbing and sufficiently age in-appropriate games. He made sure to be truant intermittently, so his previous record would not be questioned should it be looked into. 

It was some nebulous near-midnight hour, whether pre or post Tim couldn't say and he was puttering around the kitchen, looking for something that wouldn't feel like razors on his shredded stomach. It was down to pop tarts and left over plain pasta when someone hummed in his ear. 

Tim had been crawling though and over Gothams underbelly since he was seven years old. He had been nearly abducted, run down and killed more times than he could even remember. And so his flight reflex was the strongest he had encountered.

It did not help him. 

Hurling the container of noodles over his shoulder, Tim dropped and rolled across the kitchen floor, shoulder jamming into the kitchen island before he found his feet and sprinted for the front door, already drawing breath to scream. 

A gleam of metal appeared in the wood, just above the handle. Tim became aware of a sharp, cold sting along the side of his neck as it slowly dawned on him that there was a shuriken embedded in his front door. 

Another cold sting and another glittering silver disc buried itself soundlessly in the wood. 

He jerked to the side, into the front living room and hurled himself over the couch. He couldn’t hear anything. Whoever was chasing him was terrifyingly silent, there was no way to track them. So Tim counted two seconds and rolled beneath the couch and out the other side, racing back the way he came and just catching sight of a black curve against the closed curtains. 

“Not bad.”

The whisper was silk and spiders legs and snowfall and Tim had never been so inspired to run in his life. 

The front door was close, but in an unobstructed straight line. The person behind him was faster, had projectiles and it was locked anyway. Even if he miraculously made it to the door he would be a sitting duck while attempting to open it. 

He ducked into the study off the living room and slammed the door closed, a trio of soft thuds telling him there were more holes in the house than previously. 

Breath coming out in high, whimpering wheezes that he couldn't manage, Tim locked the door and darted away. 

The study let out into the front hall, another straight shot to the front door. But the person was in the living room, which was even closer. Tim was under no illusion that the door would protect him any more than a paper machie hat, so staying put would do nothing but pluck the feathers off his already sitting duck self. So he opened the door to the hall and threw himself at the stairs, climbing them faster than he had climbed anything ever in his life. He nearly tripped, nearly skidded down the stairs on his front, knee slamming into the step, pulling himself upright through sheer terror and his nails scratching and catching in the grains of hardwood.

He doesn't hear anything behind him. No footsteps, no rustling of clothing, not even a single breath.

When he slams his door shut he doesn't see anything in the split second he is facing the hallway but he knows they’re there. He can feel them. 

He’s just unlatching his window when his doors (hinges beaten slightly off center, so he always knows what someone is opening it) swings wide and thumps gently against the doorjamb. 

He can’t get out the window. One latch is still closed, the screen is in the way, lifting it takes finesse. He can’t run. 

So he drops, rolls under the bed and keeps rolling at the feet he sees planted on the other side. Wise to this tactic, they don’t move. Tim didn't expect them to. 

The icepick he had stashed in his box spring slides through leather, catches on metal and is turned aside to skate along the side of a surprisingly small foot rather than piercing through it entirely.

“Oh,” says a muffled, terrifyingly pleased voice.

Tim leaves the pick embedded in the floor, plants his hands to push up and is distantly shocked at how hot fresh blood is as he scrambled gracelessly to escape. 

And then he’s not on the floor, backed slamming into something soft, familiar, air whooshing audibly as he compresses the mattress beneath the combined weight of his body, the momentum of being hurled down and the hand pressing down on his throat. 

It hurt. He had never considered how badly strangulation would hurt. It pinched unpleasantly beneath his ears, in the hollow of his throat where the bottom edge of a gloved palm pressed. It was tight of course, a horribly crushed feeling and he can hear the shifting and crackling as his esophagus collapses. But he didn't expect the pressure in his eyes, the way his tongue is abruptly twice the size it should be, treacherously choking him just as much as the hand. While everything in his neck feels compressed, packed tight, everything above it seems to protrude.

Its horrifying.

“This,” the voice comes clearer now, somehow, despite the steadily increasing thud of his heartbeat in his ears and the high whine of a brain with its bloodflow cut off, “is rather unexpected.”

Tim honestly has no idea how many times he has almost died. Food gone bad. Slipping getting out of the tub when he was six and falling right back in, too stunned to get his face above water. Dropping from fire-escapes and buildings and walls, nearly being run down in the street. None of it had ever bothered him, ever seemed real. 

This seems like it is the only thing that had ever been real. 

And then its gone. 

He sucks in air, but really its the rush of blood pouring back through his veins that whites out his vision and his hearing and his consciousness with the force of it. 

Tears and snot and spit are all over his face when he curls pathetically into the blanket, hands wrapped protectively but lightly around his neck as he huddles. Theres no point in trying to run now. He wouldn't get far, not like this, and he knows trying to fight would go even worse. But the thought of laying here to be killed without doing anything makes his entire body crawl. 

So he can’t fight. He can’t run. So he’ll try to understand.

He opens his eyes and stares. 

Its a woman. He’s not surprised. He might have been too terrified to consciously realize it, but his brain had always been capable of compiling evidence even when he wasn't manually controlling his thoughts. He is surprised that she is beautiful. 

He shouldn't be, really. His mother is the most beautiful women he had ever known, has been noted as being one of the most attractive people in Gotham, and he wouldn’t be surprised to learn she has killed with her bare hands. 

Unlike his mothers very faint traces of korean lineage in the shape of her eyes and the darkness of her hair, this woman is undeniably asian. Again, not a surprise if she was sent by who he assumes she was sent by. 

As he watches she bends and neatly plucks the pick from her foot with not a hint of discomfort, turning it for inspection as she stands straight. Tight black pants of a soft material too hardy to be velvet, red shirt peeking from an open coat that flares from around her hips. With a casual flick over her shoulder, the pick is embedded to its handle in the wall.

“Timothy Drake,” she says in that same soft voice, devoid of tone, as blank and unreadable as her face. Like the void of space deciding to masquerade as a person and doing an exceptionally poor job of it. 

“Present,” Tim croaks and instantly hates himself. Which is about par for the course, really.

“Were you hired to sabotage your families company or was it done of you're own initiative?”

“I didn't sabotage anything!” Tim tries to sound offended, frightened and truthful, and finds that putting a up a convincing act after being strangled and instants away from certain death is beyond his ability. 

“Destroying two buildings and rendering the other unusable due to scrutiny of outside entities within a twenty-four hour period. An acceptable performance.” Her eyes were black, black, black. Tim almost expects them to start dribbling down her face like spilled ink and finds his own eyes twitched away. “Who trained you?”

Tim swallows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Truth.”

He’s going to die. He’s going to die.

Gathering fistfuls of blanket, he hunches. “What—what do you want?”

“Something you cannot give me.”

“My parents, they can pay you, you don’t need to…” kill me. “Hurt me. Please.”

Would they pay? They had taken a hit to their reputation, which would reflect in their business, which would impact their newly stable finances. Would they pay?

Steph would pay, he thought abruptly and wonders where the thought came from. It was a stupid one. Of course Steph wouldn’t, she couldn’t, and neither could his parents. 

“Have you engaged in similar acts of destruction prior to this?” 

Tim nearly says no, doesn’t even think about it, until he remembers. He had brought down destruction on so many people before. He had killed people before. This, in the grand scheme of things, was not as bad. 

The woman smiled. 

“I see.”

A gloved hand brushed over the side of her coat, leaving a faintly wet smear and Tim abruptly remembered the sting from earlier. Now that his attention was on it, he cold feel a tackiness on either side of his neck, a dribble of blood winding over his skin. 

“I was hired to kill the entities responsible for the attacks.” She looked him over, a quick sweep. “Fortunately for you, I do not currently kill children.”

Hired. An assassin. That was expected but….

Tim was suddenly, whole heartedly relieved to be dehydrated as a horrible thought occurred to him. If he hadn't pissed himself already, this would have done it, probably. 

“Lady Shiva.”

The smile is the same. Sharp, white teeth, more horrifyingly threatening than a sharks open maw. But the blackness of her eyes seemed to shift, harden, sharpen. 

“Oh yes. Very unexpected.”

Tim was not, by nature, terribly imaginative. His daydreams had always been humble things, spartan. Simple. Being with the dynamic duo, learning from them. Finding the best coffee shop in Gotham and somehow living in its basement. Any creative talent was bent towards plotting. 

So he had never imagined, and thought he could be excused for doing so, that he would sit in his parents sitting room drinking tea with a globally feared assassin, quite possibly the most deadly woman in the world. 

Or, she drank it. 

Tim sat staring into the abyss that was his ability to process. There was nothing there. Facts just kept falling in, vanishing into the ether, not even hitting bottom like rocks thrown in a well. 

Lady Shiva had come to kill him.

He was not dead.

On the surface this was a good thing. Tim did not actually want to be dead. It would be massively inconvenient and he needed to make a proper will. Find a way to have his computers self destruct before he went. So. Not being dead was. Good?

Lady Shiva had come to kill him. 

He was not dead. 

She said he had talent. 

This, on the surface, was not a good thing. Under the surface, it was still not a good thing. In the heart of it, it was very much, quite decidedly, not a good thing. 

“This is the altar upon which hope dies,” he mumbled. His throat clicks as he swallows, frowns, cocks his head. He doesn't know what that means or where it came from, but it sounds about right.

Lady Shiva had come to kill him. 

He was not dead.

She said he had talent.

Lady Shiva was going to nurture that talent.

Borrowing from his less reliable role models, Tim nodded once, slumped into the sofa and said what he considered to be an adequate summation of the whole evening. 

“Fuck.”

He had six months to master one weapon. If at the end of six months he failed to preform to her standards he would be killed, not only at the behest of Dorrance, but for proving to be a waste of time. 

Tim had a great deal of experience preforming under pressure. He had been expected to excel in all endeavors from infancy onward, and it was only during the last year that the pressure had eased. Even now, he was expected to be keep his grades impeccable, his manners perfect and be prepared to represent the family at all times. 

Granted, death was far greater stakes than mere exile to a boarding school or loss of privileges. Far more permanent as well. But it was pressure all the same and he would use it. 

He spent the week of ill afforded grace in research. He’d never thought to learn a weapon, not really. None of the bats did, other than Batarangs and the occasional bolo, and recently Nightwings escrima sticks, so he had never developed much of an interest in the subject. 

Now he had no choice. His life was on the line, and to keep that life he had to make the best decision possible. 

He visited every dojo and gym he could, spoke to the owners and students. He found every expert online that was willing to spend time on him and interrogated them until their patience was exhausted and he was blocked. 

Usually he did not have so much difficulty in researching anything. Perhaps it was the subject matter. Perhaps it was his lack of experience to pull from. More likely, if he spared a second to think about it, it was because the parameters were simply too broad. 

Shiva had given him only three demands. He must choose a weapon, master said weapon, and survive the process of learning to wield it. That was all. 

How was he supposed to do anything with that?

So he considered multiple weapons. The bo staff was appealing, with its reach and versatility, but it was long and difficult to transport. A sword? Too deadly and to use it would be to draw blood, which was messy and would certainly transfer over. He definitely didn't want to someday be convicted through DNA evidence. 

Not that he was planning to do anything worthy of conviction. Just as a hypothetical. 

For an entire Red Bull fueled day he considered the bull whip. That had reach. Catwoman had a whip and proved that it was versatile. Also, Indiana Jones. Indiana Jones was cool and his whip was cool and Tim thought that snapping sound was pretty awesome by itself. 

He practiced a little with a power cord. When it got out of control and rebounded back to slap him in the back of the thigh with the outlet end he decided he might be better off with something else. 

Bow and arrow. Mace. Ninja wire. Brass knuckles. Bean bag shotgun (another experiment that ended painfully and with a hole in the drywall ceiling of the basement). Nunchuks. 

There were so many. 

His final choice was stumbled upon somewhat by accident. 

And, like most things he bought and then regretted, was available through the internet. 

Free three day shipping. 

Heck yeah. 

Tim had expected the coordinates Shiva sent him to belong to some dingy, dark, abandoned warehouse, or defunct depot or otherwise spooky desolate landscape. That was where things usually went down in Gotham. It was basically tradition. If you were going to do something shady, find the place with the most shade. 

Instead, it was a gym. A regular, middle class working mans gym, with memberships and treadmills and weekly yoga classes. The front desk sold protein powders and water bottles with the business logo on them. Tim, in his Wonder Woman hoodie and Gotham baseball cap and sunglasses, shuffled awkwardly beneath the arches of the front building facade and waited. 

He’d come early. He’d thought she’d swoop down threateningly from somewhere on high, like Batman, but she wasn't there. At least, not so far as he could tell, and he was willing to admit that a world renowned assassin might possibly be more stealthy than Batman. 

When four thirty rolled around he spotted her coming up the sidewalk, walking through the like crowd of shoppers like she wasn't capable of killing every one of them with one finger and no effort. She was drinking an iced coffee, wearing a red jacket and sneakers. 

Sneakers, he thought dumbfoundedly. Sneakers and yoga pants, like a soccer mom.

She had a pony tail. 

She stared blankly over the plastic cover of her drink, the striped straw tapping slowly against her lip. It was covered in teeth marks at the top, crushed and sharp looking.

She could definitely kill him with that, he decided, and his throat ached. 

“You have the weapon.” It was a statement. 

Hands gripping even tighter around the straps of his backpack, Tim nodded. 

With a grunt, she brushed by him and entered the gym.

A good dozen people were in the gym’s main room. Most were on various exercise equipment, single-mindedly and enthusiastically working up a sweat. All of them were alone. 

Scrambling in Shiva’s wake, Tim noted that the receptionist barely glanced at them in passing before returning to their phone. Clearly Shiva had been here before and was expected now. It didn't seem like a very assassin sort of way of conducting business; visiting a gym in broad daylight, apparently according to prearranged plans. Then again, he didn't know anything about assassins other than how to hire one and the fact that all he had come in contact with were terrifying. 

He was almost hoping to be led to some subterranean, secret lair but instead she motioned him into a perfectly plain room and closed the door. 

The floor was covered in old, fraying mats, the mirror along one of the walls age spotted and cheap, more plastic than glass. It smelled like cleaner and air-freshener and the only lights were tubes set into the ceiling behind honeycomb plastic diffusion panels. There were laminated charts of yoga positions and a single motivational poster featuring a daschund with its butt in the air.

All in all, the only thing Tim had not been prepared for was to be underwhelmed. 

“You have some training.” Setting her cup on top of a cubby cabinet, scuffed and slowly losing its plastic coated shine, Shiva shed her jacket. She was watching him, eyes as expressive and inviting as the carapace of a scorpion. “What sort?”

“Just some self defense sort of things.” 

Licking his lips, Tim eased away from the closed door he had been hovering by. Not like it would provide escape even if it were open and he was hanging off out of it. Scooting along the perimeter of the wall unit he reached the designated area, he toed off his shoes and nudged them toward the cubby. It was reflex, more than anything. He had been scolded by enough irate gym and dojo owners to never step on a mat without the acquired footwear. Having a water bottle thrown at his head tended to make lessons like that stick in it. 

Shiva crossed her arms. “Do not waste my time. When I ask a question you answer it concisely and fully. What sort of training have you received?”

Tim was going to die. She was going to flay him alive without ever changing tone, much less moving a muscle. Fear at least loosened his tongue.

“Gymnastics, some judo for a few weeks, ten months of Aikido. A few lessons of Krav Maga.”

“Show me.” She stepped forward.

Tim didn't know how or when he had hit the ground. He only starred upwards, head ringing, the side of his face stinging and cold. Her hand was still raised, palm open. 

There was blood in his mouth. 

“Show me,” she said again. This time, at least, he saw the blow coming but only barely and he couldn't even roll with the kick that slammed into his ribs. He rolled off the mat, over the carpeted floor and hit the wall with a thankfully decreased thump as most of the momentum had been eaten by distance. 

He couldn't inhale. His chest felt locked, frozen, and nothing but weak wheezes were sputtering in his throat. And still she advanced. 

“Show me, Drake.”

A kick again. He managed to tuck his shoulders in and bring his forearm up, the strike landing across upper his upper arm and forearm and knocking him sideways. The adrenaline that he been buzzing through him since setting eyes on her, with her deceptive yoga pants and coffee, had increased exponentially. 

The next time she kicked he was able to use the momentum to roll out of the corner he had been heading towards and back to the mat. 

After that is was the same. The demand stopped and all the came were the blows. The side of her foot, the palm of her hand. Painful, but not deadly, not enough to break bones, not enough to form visible bruises. 

Tim tried to strategize, tried to find some way to avoid getting hit. Impossible, of course and it seemed every attempt to evade just made the blow harder. Then he tried blocking, running through everything he had learned. But none of them worked. 

Sometime between yet another open palm slap and a kick to the shin, his mind emptied and his mouth curled into something unnatural, twisted. He glared through his hair and through the stinging tears from the slaps and snarled. 

Shiva smiled, a small scythe like crescent of sharp teeth and satisfaction. 

“Good.”

He was sweating. It felt like a thousand hours had passed and his whole body was shaking as he hit the mat for the hundredth time. He hadn't managed to avoid a single blow. He thought he might have redirected a few but mostly couldn't recall very much. 

She stopped as abruptly as she had started, leaving him panting and shaking and braced for another hit. As it finally dawned that her back was turned and she was walking away, his whole body sagged, bones heavy as melted lead though they felt like shattered glass.

Crumpled on the floor, he sat breathing hard with a hand pressed over his mouth, trying desperately not to vomit. Shiva did not look at him as she slid into her jacket and flicked her ponytail free. 

“Pathetic,” she said, scorpion eyes on him as he shook. “What weapon did you choose?”

Tim looked at his backpack and forced himself back to his feet. The walk back was more of a stumbling crawl and unzipping the pack took more effort than he thought he would have to expend, but eventually he managed to tip the contents onto the floor. 

The tonfa clattered against each other, the unstained wood nearly white compared to the grey carpet.

“Guai,” she said thoughtfully. As she stepped soundlessly nearer he expected her to nudge them with her foot the same way she had him when he didn't get to his feet fast enough, but instead she bent and picked them up. 

They spun in her fingers, as elegant and smoothly supple as wings and Tim found himself staring. It was… beautiful. Shockingly beautiful, considering how brief and quick the motions were. The sound of them cutting through the are was a low thrum that set the hairs on his neck prickling. 

“Decent choice.” A flip of the right baton and she was suddenly closer, the handle hooked around the back of his neck and pulling upwards at the base of his skull. “You will become proficient and you will prove yourself worthy of my time.”

“Yes, Shifu.”

The guai were pressed into his hands and he was not expecting the slap that followed, harder than all those that had proceeded it. His ears rang and he swayed, feet slamming wide as he desperately braced himself.

“Do not let your weapons touch the ground again.”

“Yes, Shifu.”

She stared at him. He stared beyond her.

“Come again tomorrow.”

And then she was gone. Tim sat, back against the wall and guai wrapped in his arms, until the receptionist came to usher him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuuuugh. This chapter did not like me. More accurately, Shiva does not like me and she is extremely difficult to write. But I am committed now! No backing out from this character for me.  
> I know there's a lot of typos and switching between tenses, but I'm on new meds and they're doing in my ability to proof read properly, so I'm being lazy and throwing it all out with minimal effort this time ~  
> Anyway, comment if inclined. I hope you enjoyed! Stay safe and have fun
> 
> (Also, uploads times might be switching from horrifically early on sundays to rather late. Just a heads-up)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs at bottom of page

It took two months for the calluses to stay. The same grips, over and over again, until his hands could no longer hold the guai and they fell to the floor. The first time that had happened in Shiva’s presence she had grabbed them and took him to the mats with a single blow that left him soundless and breathless for what felt like millennia. 

He’d learned never to let them go again, though. If his hands couldn't hold them anymore he caught them in his elbows. A weapon you lost was a weapon used against you and he was determined not to give Shiva another opportunity to reinforce the lesson.

During those two months were blisters that were forever seeping, soaking yellowish and pink tinged plasma through cheap bandaids. Then the calluses, smaller, softer ones that split or tore free completely, a whole different sort of hell from the blisters that preceded them. 

The joint pain was the worst though. Mostly his hands, his fingers. They ached, were swollen more often than not. He’d researched of course. When did he not? So he knew what he was doing, how Shiva was teaching him was ruining his body. Pushing it too hard for too long. Never stopping, really. When he wasn't holding the batons then he was strengthening his hands in order to hold them more securely or stretching to provide more flexibility. He knew that he’d be paying a heavy price over the next twenty years. 

But then again, if he didn’t, he’d be paying a higher price at the end of his six months. And that one would be paid in full rather than in painful installments. 

The basement was as bare and cold as ever as he laid flat on the floor, halfheartedly trying to convince his body to move. The washer had chimed several minutes earlier but he had yet to do anything about it. Instead he was lying there obsessing over pain. 

The next morning was a saturday and another lesson with Shiva. They had changed locations to another gym, this one more upper class with several private rooms and more specialized equipment. 

His phone vibrated and he moaned pathetically. If that was Shiva, he would crawl into the dryer, he swore he would. 

His heart flipped, thudded, stalled for a moment and then raced. 

Purple2Pointer was online. 

‘timmy, loing time no tlk! Sup wit u?’

Steph. After months of silence from both their ends she was there. 

Scrubbing at his eyes, Tim scowled at himself. Now was not the time to have emotions! Now was the time to get himself together. 

Crossing his legs, he hunched over the phone.

‘hello steph’

‘thats it? give me smth to wrk wth, sheesh’

‘i’m good, waiting for clothes to dry’

‘get sum hot cloths cuddles!’

‘duh’

‘rude’

The smile on his face was painful. Stiff, like it was being forced, though it wasn't at all. He cradled the phone, staring at the strings of emoticons bracketing each poorly written line. God, he’d missed her. How hadn't he noticed before now?

‘havnt sen u round. u good?’ 

He gave it some thought. They really hadn't seen each other. For weeks, now. And before that it had been only in passing, hurried hellos that lasted seconds and goodbyes that were even shorter. He… hadn't noticed. He didn't know which of them had started it first. He tapped out a reply.

‘good. new trainer, she wears me out! how have you been doing? anything interesting?’

‘shit, yeah. i got a trainer too!!!’

Tim squinted at the screen. ‘for what?’

‘stuff. like, gymnast stuff’

A gif of exploding confetti raining down on a smug cat followed the text and Tim couldn't help grinning. Steph had wanted to be a gymnast, or at least learn gymnastics, for as long as he’d known her. There was no way she could afford lessons and the one time he had offered to pay for her had ended with a three day silent streak that was only broken when he promised never to ask again. 

‘thats amzing! congrats!’

‘thnks!’

‘how did that happen?’

There was a very long wait full of typing bubbles that vanished and reappeared four times. Finally;

‘she saw me and saif i have talent. she’s doing it for free’

Tim stared. And grinned. And then laughed.

‘you do have talent. i’m glad someone finally noticed. i’m so happy for you’

‘thnks, tim’

Somehow that rest of the evening wasn't spent doing any of the exercises he was supposed to do. It was spent with his back against the dryer, clean laundry toppled all around him as he texted with the one person who he wanted to talk to. 

Janet Drake had been sitting on the couch for three hours and Tim hadn't seen her eat for even longer. 

He usually let her focus when she was home and there was clearly a lot that required her focus now. Papers and files were spread across the coffee table, a mug filled with colored pens set neatly within reach. She alternated between two laptops and a tablet, her phone ever ready on the cushion beside her. 

Her hair had grown out from her sharp bob and was swept into a knot at the back of her head, wisping curls curling around her neck. She looked… softer than Tim remembered seeing her. Tired. No concealer hid the bruised circles beneath her eyes and without the dark lipstick her mouth was pale and chapped. Without the sharp slice of black liner her eyes seemed darker and rounder. Warmer.

After slinking through the hall behind her for an hour, Tim scrabbled together his courage and went to the kitchen. 

A few minutes later he carried out a cup of dark, black coffee with almond syrup, the steam sweet and pungent in his nose. A plate with an onion bagel topped with an avocado balanced on his other hand. 

“Mom?”

“What is it, Timothy?”

She didn't pause from her typing or even glance his way. Swallowing heavily and pasting on a smile, he eased into her periphery. 

“Got you a snack. Thought you could use it. You’ve been working really hard.”

The typing continued, nearly as quickly as he was able to, and she sent off what looked like a lengthy email with a click of manicured nails.

Then she looked at him, head cocked as she took in the large mug and bagel. For a moment he thought she would reject it, send him off with an absented minded dismissal. Sunlight slanting through the half closed blinds across the room cast a black bar of shadow over her eyes and mouth, masking her expression. 

“Thank you.”

His heart soared. “You’re welcome.”

He passed her the coffee and cleared a spot for the plate with careful nudging of papers, ensuring he didn't disturb their order. When he looked back at her, she was watching him. 

“You’ve grown taller,” she noted. 

Tim grinned. “Yeah. Its only an inch, but I’ll take what I can get at this point.”

“Hmm.” 

Moving slowly, he settled onto the couch on the other side of her phone and leaned carefully back into the cushions. She didn't reprimand him or tell him to leave. Only returned to her typing, one handed now as she sipped her coffee. 

“So what are you doing?” Tim asked hopefully. 

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“Putting out fires again?” He offered and then instantly grimaced. 

She flicked him a glance with a raised brow and snorted. “I trust that was not an intentional jab.”

“No ma’am. Sorry.”

“As much tact as your father, like usual. Still, were it not directed at me, it would have been a decent blow.”

Tim glowed. “Thank you.”

“We should resume your rhetoric lessons. The books should be on the shelves in the study.”

Ugh. Tim did not want to and so did not instantly agree. Only made a sound that might have been taken for agreement. 

“That was not a suggestion,” Janet declared and Tim swallowed back a sigh. 

“Yes mother.”

Setting the half depleted mug on the corner of the table, she exchanged for the plate. Eating one handed while flipping through a file laid on one thigh, she was quiet. 

Usually Tim would take that silence for dismissal. It might have been so now. But the couch was soft around him. The soft jasmine scent of Janets signature perfume smelled sun warmed and soft, faded as though it had been applied hours past. It likely had. 

Slumping into the corner of the armrest Tim looked at the papers. Those closest to him seemed to be insurance for the two destroyed researched buildings. A schematic, rough and printed by a clearly ancient, badly serviced machine, showed the origin of the second fires. Cramped printed handwriting was in the margin. An arson investigator? He squinted at it. Yes, a city arson investigator. Doubtless Janet had hired a host of private ones that were even now working to provide better answers. 

Very faintly the sound of a cello drifted through the room and Tim glanced at the window. The neighbor across from them occasionally played with their window open and usually Tim would sit on his bed with his own window raised, to listen. For once the quiet here was preferable. Probably because, for once, there was someone else in it with him. 

“We are planning to transfer you back to Gotham Academy in the next few months,” his mother said. 

The peace swirled away like water down a drain.

“What?”

Janet sighed and snapped the file closed. 

“We were planning to wait until next year. It would have been more convenient to transfers at the start of the first semester. However we are doing it now.”

Tim shook his head. “Why? I don’t want to, I like my school.”

Janets eyes narrowed. “I am aware. I have allowed you to stagnate there because there was no other option. You might have enjoyed your idleness but it will not be tolerate any longer.”

“My grades as still perfect,” Tim argued. Something hot and cold was twisting in his belly, a slick, unpleasant feeling that pulsed at the back his throat, propelling the words out. “There is no reason for me to leave.”

“Of course your grades as perfect. You were set back three grades.” Setting the plate with the remainder of her bagel on the table with a sharp click of porcelain, Janet sat straighter. “And there are a multitude of reasons for you to return to the Academy.”

“Like what? I like being in the same grade as my age group for once.”

Janet’s eyes narrow. Tim wonders how he ever could have thought she looked soft. 

“Because you are my son. You are not like your peers. You are better and you will not pretend otherwise. This discussion is over.”

A dismissal. He should have left earlier. Standing, forcing his hands not to clench and his eyes not to water, he meets his mothers stare evenly and smiles. 

“Of course, mother.”

She still smelled like faded jasmine. There are crumbs over the the plate, the sides of the bagel squished from her grip. The mug is empty. 

He feels her eyes on his back as he leaves. 

The first time Tim manages to successfully block a strike from Shiva he doesn’t even realize it until the spar is over. 

While drinking some of the sludge-like goo Shiva had taken to giving him after he fainted one time too many, the memory of stopping her cold and nearly returning a blow has him chocking. Some of the goo (that tastes like overripe berries, raw meat and ginger) goes up his nose and he spends a long moment struggling not to die. 

“Realized at last, I see,” Shiva drawled from her position leaning against the wall, lacing her knee high boots.

“I did it?” Tim wheezes to himself. For once he wasn't hyper aware of every breath and motion from Shiva, who he treated as someone would a rabid tiger they were forced to share a room with, and instead basked in the knowledge that he had done it.

He’d finally done it. 

With a shaking hand he pressed against the spot on his thigh she would have hit. It was bruised of course, all of him was, but it was an old bruise. An old hurt. And at the moment it felt like it was glowing with health and completely pain free. 

Grinning so wide it hurt, Tim spun around to face her. 

“I did it! Shifu, did you see that?”

“Drink,” she said, finished with the boots and moving on to her jacket. 

“Wow,” Tim mumbled into the half drained canteen. “Woah.”

“Again tomorrow. And I expect you to block two strikes.”

Still lost is a cloud of disbelief, warm and fuzzy as rabbits, Tim beamed dreamily at her. 

“Yes, Shifu!”

As always his body weighed heavy as wet cement but his spirit felt light. He swaggered as much as overtaxed muscles allowed as he made his way to the bus stop and spent the wait stretching; he rarely had the opportunity to do any cool down at the various gyms that Shiva cycled through. Their allotted time was fixed and she rarely booked any longer the time she spent training him. 

There were a few people waiting at the stop. An elderly man reading a paper, a scruffy collage aged girl in a battered helmet with a bike leaning against her legs as she bopped her head wearily along to whatever tune was playing through her headphones. A woman with a stroller sat on the bench, using one foot against the front wheel to move it gently back and forth while she sat with her arms crossed over her chest and her head continually drooping downward. 

From his place on the narrow patch of grass dividing the sidewalk from the cramped parking lot behind it, Tim leaned forward enough to peek into the stroller. Sure enough, it was only a baby, made even more uninteresting by the fact that it was sleeping. 

It was still light out and Tim turned his attention further afield as he began stretching his arms and shoulders. 

The buildings were less towering here at the edge of Gotham, where metropolitan mass gave way to suburban sprawl. It wasn't a terribly wealthy area, housing blue-collar workers and families. Tim could almost see the appeal with how quiet it was, and how more space offered a wider view so he could spot a threat coming. But he was always ready to get back to the heart of Gotham, at the end of the day. 

The bus rolled to a stop with a hiss of air brakes. A small flood of disembarking passengers stepped silently off. The elderly man tucked his paper under one arm and scurried ahead to board while the college girl fixed her bike to the rack at the front, her GU sweater catching on the pedal. 

Tim started up the stairs but stopped when he heard a sigh behind him. 

The mother and stroller were at odds. She was attempting to maneuver it up the steps but was struggling, the stroller almost too bulky to fit. The driver was staring sullenly out the windshield and ignoring it. 

“Need a hand?” Tim asked, already adjusting his backpack and gripping the front of the stroller, where the baby was now awake and watching him with a displeased, wrinkled pug kind of expression. 

“I’m so sorry,” the mother said. Her face was flushed, kinky hair going darker with sweat. When she realized he was smiling at her the grimace on her face eased from mortified to faintly, wryly amused. “Please, if you would.”

“Here, I’ll get this end.” The GU student said briskly and lifted the back end, shoving it neatly and vigorously inside, fast enough to force Tim to scramble back and the baby make a hiccupy sort of yip. 

As Tim dragged the stroller into the aisle and out of the way, he saw the girl hovering a hand at the woman's back as she climbed aboard, apparently ready to catch her. 

In possession of stroller and child once again, the woman swiped her card and hurried to the back of the bus, with a litany of thanks for the both of them. The girl waved at the wide eyed baby.

“No problem. Right kid?”

“Yes, no trouble.” 

The girl dropped into the empty seat behind the driver, already pulling out a battered Mp3 player and scrolling. 

Tim took a seat in the center, just in front of the secondary doors and hugged his backpack in his lap. 

The ride to downtown would take almost an hour with traffic, which was already becoming a problem, so he settled in comfortably, legs folded up on the seat as he pressed against the window. 

He’d stopped Shiva’s blow. Stopped it. The energy ooze in his stomach was sloshing unpleasantly, he ached from dermis to marrow, but he couldn't stop grinning. 

Finally there was tangible proof of his improvements. He was improving, he was getting better. He’d never felt like this before in any of his other endeavors. Not martial arts, or gymnastics or even when learning under Andromeda. Part of it was probably the fact that if he didn't improve he would be killed. But also… also he wanted to prove that he was worth Shiva’s time. Prove to himself that he really did have the potential she had claimed to see in him. 

Many, many people had said he had potential. That he had talent, was gifted, intelligent, a prodigy. He’d heard variations of the same his whole life and they all rang hollow these days. Had stopped meaning anything a long time ago. 

Shiva was different. This was different. 

She could see him, like no one else had ever seen him. Seeing something he had never known was there.

But apparently it was, because he had blocked a blow from Shiva.

The bus lumbered around a sharp corner, shuddering and hissing. Someone slid into the seat beside him.  
Even before he fully became aware of the movement he was already tensing. By the time the man was seat beside him, legs casually spread and arm stretching over the back of the seats, he had a hand in his pack and wrapped around the grip of his guai. 

He was tall and lanky, silver streaked hair and stubble. Not particularly threatening in his worn running shoes and windbreaker. He smelled like the city, deodorant and gun oil. 

“Hey kid,” he said softly, tone friendly but so quiet no one but Tim would hear the words. “I’m guessing you’re Timothy.”

“Leave me alone or I’ll scream,” Tim replied just as quietly. 

“Nah. I wouldn’t do that.” The man shrugged and the windbreaker, half zipped and faded green, opened just enough to show the butt of a handgun beneath his arm. “You do and I’ll shoot the baby you so politely helped. I’ll leave mom there alive, though. She’d be pretty pissed if she found out you were the reason her kid was dead.”

Tim stayed still and stayed quiet, slumping into the seat. 

“Good job. When we get to the next stop, we’re going to get off.”

“And then what?”

The man snorted. “Hell if I know. Your just my next paycheck kid, and I’m just the delivery guy.”

So, someone had hired him. And Tim was not a random mark. Someone knew who he was and had targeted him specifically. There were few options but only one that was likely. He might have been targeted for kidnapping a few years ago, when the Drakes were more affluent, but nowadays only one person would have anything to gain from holding Tim, specifically, hostage. 

He wasn't about to be handed to Dorrance without a fight. 

But he wasn't about to fight here either. 

The next stop arrived with a familiar hiss of brakes. The bus rocked into a stop and Tim twisted the strap of his backpack around his hand, tight, nails biting into the nylon. The elderly man and a group of four teenagers disembarked, Windbreaker getting out of his seat with an extravagant stretch, eyes sliding warningly towards the back of the bus. 

Tim didn't want to get off. Outside the windows it was dark, the sidewalks empty. An alley was mere yards away, cavernously black. If he went down there, he had no doubt he wouldn't be coming out the same way. 

But there wasn't much choice. Once he was off the bus, Windbreaker would be too. And with no one around to threaten, Tim had no doubt he’d be able to outrun the man. 

He stepped into the aisle, head down but eyes on the windows, on the two men lingering by the alley smoking. Mind already running through how he would break away. 

He stepped into the stairwell and looked over his shoulder just in time to see the GU student slam her helmet ruthlessly over the back of Windbreakers neck. 

“Call the cops!” She yelled, helmet coming down again even as Winbreaker pivoted around with a snarl. It caught him across the shoulder but he was crowding her back, trapping her between her seat and the plexiglass separating the driver from the back of the bus. “Call the cops!”

Tim scrambled back up the steps, heart racing and kicking like a trapped thing in his chest. Windbreaker knocked her arm aside, slamming it against the edge of the plexiglass wall until the helmet tumbled from her hand. She didn't scream, teeth gritted and snarling a she swung at him barehanded.

Tim was almost there, hands around the guai, when someone grabbed him from behind and began dragging him out the door. 

“Fuck!” The girl screamed, and the rest of the bus was in panic. An alarm sounded as the emergency exit was forced open and people began leaping from it. 

Tim grabbed the stairwell, looking down at the man pulling him. One of the smokers, younger than Windbreaker and even bigger, face twisted. 

With a twist, Tim promptly buried that expression beneath the heel of his foot, the crunch of crumpling cartilage traveling up his leg. 

The man let go and Tim scrambled back up the steps. 

The driver was gone, door open, but Windbreaker was still behind the seat, GU pressed into the corner and snarling as she punched at his shoulder, the only thing she could reach with him between her legs and his hand covering the side of her face and pressing it into the window. 

She caught Tims eye, struggling and straining and snarling, just as Windbreaker shot her. 

It was deafening. Seemed to go on longer than it possibly could have in reality. She jerked, eyes wide, a winded sound escaping her as she froze. 

With shove, Windbreaker sent her toppling over the back of her seat and turned away. 

Tim barely felt more hands on him from behind, dragging him out. Windbreaker charged down the steps, wrapping an arm around his waist and carrying him away. 

All Tim could see was the little rivulet of blood winding out from beneath the seat and the helmet sitting in the stairwell, still rocking. 

It had taken less than a minute. 

The alley was just as dark as Tim had expected as they raced down it, but it was not one of the many dead ended ones that seemed to be a staple of Gotham. There was an opening at the end, the glow of streetlights much stronger than those at the opening behind them. Tim could make out the bumper of a car, exhaust wafting from the back. 

“Little fucker broke my nose,” the closet man mutter wetly. Windbreaker sighed. 

“Not my problem. Just keeping going, Christ, this is a clusterfuck.”

“You shot her,” Tim whispered. 

“Damn right I did, and who’s fault was it?” Windbreaker shook him, fingers digging into his side and the mans bony hip grating along his ribs. Tim still had hold the backpack, dangling from one hand and dragging along the ground. “Charlie, get the trunk open!”

Charlie, the man whose nose Tim had not broken, ran faster and broke ahead. 

“Fucking hell,” Windbreaker muttered. 

Tim stared back at the alley entrance. Sirens were blaring distantly, too far away. He didn't know where the GU student had been shot, but he knew they were too far away. 

His eyes watered. 

Hand slipping into the half open pack, Tim let gravity drag it off the guai as he held the front end. With precision made even easier by his position, he drew back and slammed the bottom of the grip into Windbreakers left kidney. 

Dropped instantly as the man fell forward with a scream, Tim rolled, coming up where the the pack had fallen and scooping it up his arm and over his shoulder. 

Windbreakers was on the ground, vomiting and moaning. Tim didn't need to worry about him anymore, and no one else would for days. 

Blood streaming down his face, the one Tim had already gotten charged, yelling incoherently, but loudly enough that Charlie turned back around. Another man looked around the end of the alley wall and quickly followed. 

Tim ducked beneath a fist, stepping close with the guai sliding down his palm. He didn't even need to bend as he flicked it forward. 

The sound of the mans knee shattering was louder and wetter than his nose had been. 

When the man dropped to his remaining knee, Tim flipped the guai, catching the grip and bringing the butt of it down on his clavicle with single, soft crack. 

As he fell the rest of the way onto the ground Tim pivoted, momentum adding force to the blow that he delivered to Charlies completely unprotected side. No bones there, but a great deal of soft tissue and the sides of sensitive organs. He also fell, directly on Tim’s raised knee, the guai’s grip hooking the back of his neck to speed his descent. 

He felt the scrape of teeth over his jeans. 

The last man hesitated. 

Tim did not. 

The grip again utilized as a hook, Tim pulled yanked the man off balance and while he staggered kicked him where it would hurt the most. 

For a moment, surround by groaning and the sound of retching, Tim froze. He didn't know where to go. Back? Forward? 

His heart felt too big, was beating too fast. The even breathing and smooth movements of seconds ago were gone and he was shaking, too hard to hold onto the guai. He tucked it up beneath his arm, skirting groaning bodies to snatch up his backpack. 

Forward? Or back?

A jagged shadow had him turning.

Up.

A fire escape hung from the side of the alley wall, rusted and broken, grate flooring broken from several levels. The ladder was gone and even if it hadn’t been it would have been out of reach. But Tim had gotten into far more difficult places in even more sub-optimal conditions. 

A line of overflowing dumpsters sat several feet away from the fire escape and Tim ran to the one at the end. A glance over his shoulder showed the man with the shattered nose pushing up onto his elbows, bared teeth gleaming dully with blood as he glared at Tim.

Not the time to hesitate, apparently, Tim thought and hauled himself onto the dumpster. There were five, all in a line, some with lids closed and others without lids at all, but it was a straight shot. Shrugging the straps of his backpack into position, Tim took off at a a run. 

Landing in a crouch on the rim of the last dumpster Tim launched up and forward and with a clatter of metal and a rain of rust flakes, hooked the handle of the guai over the railing of the fire escape. 

“Little bitch, I’ll fucking kill you,” someone snarled but Tim was occupied with swinging up onto the creaking grated floor and scrambling up the stairs. 

“Don’t shoot him! Lets just get the hell out of here, shit!”

Halfway up already, Tim barely slowed as he glanced down. The men were at the end of the alley, Windbreaker leaning heavily against the corner of the building and staring back. 

Tim knew there was no way the man could see him. It still felt at though he did. 

When Tim rolled over the edge of the roof onto the patchy, exposed tar paper that covered it, he stayed flat. His nails scraped over the paper and he couldn't tell whether the tacky feeling was from the tar or blood. 

“Disappointing.”

Tim rolled, guai coming up perpendicular to his body, lying along the plane of his arm in automatic defense against a blow that did not come. 

Over his arm he saw Shiva seated at the edge of the roof, looking downwards. The flickering red and blue of emergency vehicles washed out all other color, limning her silhouette with an alien glow. 

“Shifu?” Tim asked, a wobble in his voice that he failed to swallow back.

“Disappointing,” Shiva said again and finally looked at him over one loosely held shoulder. “Three opponents with no skill and yet failure.”

“You were here?” Tim carefully stood from his crouch, guai falling to hang limply at his side. His head was spinning. Thoughts sticking briefly together before falling away. “Why were you…?”

“For all the time and effort I have invested in your training I expected a far more worthy showing.” Looking back down, Shiva scoffed. “Pathetic.”

“How long were you here?” Long enough to see what happened. And why was she here in the first place? Coincidence? “Why-why didn't you stop them?”

A door slammed beneath them and the piercing shriek of an ambulance siren swelled and then faded as it rocketed up the street. Tim licked his lips, tasted salt. His chest hurt. 

“You knew it was going to happen.” The realization came after the words. It only sunk n while they were spilling out of his mouth, as though he was hearing it form someone else. “You knew.”

“It was a convenient test of you skills,” Shiva confirmed dully. As though it didn't matter. As though someone wasn't dying or already dead because of him. Because of her.

His voice cracked. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to see how you would fair.” She scoffed. “Not well, it seems.”

“You knew and you just let them— let it—“ He swallowed back a sour surge of nausea and gripped his hair, hand tight and yet still shaking as he stared dully at the disintegrated shingles between his feet. His shoes were layered with filth. A lace was torn. 

There was a drop of blood on one toe. 

“I expect better next time.”

Next time? Next time? A laugh like ground glass and broken marbles rattled up his throat. He felt Shiva’s attention shift, settle on him and he didn't care. 

“Next time? If there is a next time, shifu, it won’t end well for you.” Dragging his hand down from his hair, over his face, he peered between his fingers at her. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t.”

A bare flicker of her mouth was a smile. An acknowledgment. And then she was gone, over the lip of the roof and out of sight. 

The next morning Tim held his phone in a crushing grip, staring at the article on an amateur journalists blog. A photo of the GU student in a hospital bed, pale with skeletal sunken eyes and an IV sprouting from one limp hand dominated that top of the screen. 

Heroic Student Attempts to Stop Abduction, Survives Gunshot.

According to the interview, the girl was Penelope Guetierez, 19 and down one kidney. Her life had been saved due to the quick thinking and equally heroic actions of retired nurse Atoinette Bartley, 31, who had passed her baby through the back window of the bus into the hands of fellow passengers before going back to save Penelope. 

The identity of the kidnappers and their victim was unknown. 

“He was just a little kid,” Penelope said in her interview. “Just some scrawny little kid and he tried to come back for me. He should have run, the little ——. I wanted him to run.”

Police had no leads. The author supplied statistics regarding unresolved child abduction cases in Gotham, some of the highest in the country. They encouraged people to call if they caught sight of the vanished child or his abductors. A pair of amateurish but painfully constructed sketches of Windbreaker and Tim sat at the bottom of the page above a tip line number. 

The girl was alive. She was alive and Tim didn't have yet another coat of blood painting his hands. 

He wished her could tell her he was alright. He wished he could thank her. He wished he could tell her how sorry he was. 

Instead he tucked his phone into his pocket and went back to class, cold to his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for attempted kidnapping, a good Samaritan being shot. Umm, emotional abuse??? Physical abuse, by way of Shiva...?   
> I really don't know how to do warnings...
> 
> Ah, those last two scenes weren't even supposed to exist. My muse hijacked my hands again, went a little wild. Kind of a fun ride though. 
> 
> Comment if you are inclined! I hope you enjoyed :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW's at bottom of chapter

Several weeks of investigation provided precious little information. Whatever trail Tim had followed when he first started investigating Dorrance had long since gone cold, been abandoned for a new one.

Tim hadn't forgotten Dorrance but… Somehow, with studying under Shiva, the man had been relegated to the bottom of his list of priorities. That had been a mistake. One that Tim was not going to make again. 

There was no proof that Dorrance had ordered the attempted abduction. The man was quiet, barely in the background as his parents struggled to once again drag their livelihood from the gutters Tim had thrown it in. No one wanted to renew or sign a contract with a company that had been targeted by supposed terrorists.

Still, Dorrance remained, which was suspicious unto itself. Tim had thought the man would cut ties, bury any hint of his involvement with Drake Pharmaceuticals. He had, after all, been developing a bio weapon. Shouldn't he be concerned at the attention the fires had garnered? 

He had been counting on that being the case. 

Now, he knew he had miscalculated. 

Sitting on the edge of a roof, sipping his third doubleshot frappe of the day, Tim adjusted his sunglasses ad squinted at the the building far down the street. 

Its was a brownstone, old and on the verge of turning from antique to deathtrap, with several small businesses within. Several lawyers, a masseuse, a therapist and a detective agency. The last was interesting, if only because Tim had not known about it before considering it had almost no internet presence, but it was one of the lawyers that he was concerned with. 

Resettling his favorite gaming headset over his ears, Tim fiddled with his laptop. He was watching a livestream while updating one of his Batwatch programs (not that there had been much to report, recently, which was strange and unsettling but ultimately the least of his problems). Stakeouts were the worst but Tim at least had been able to bring technology to this one. Technology and caffeine, the two things he would probably shrivel up and die without. 

Inside the office of one Leroy Abercrombie there was silence broken only by the restless shifting of the sedentary and the click of a keyboard. It was too slow and filled with single taps to be typing and the cadence of the sound was familiar, so Tim had tentatively identified it as the man playing solitaire. 

It had taken several days, but Tim had managed to gather some information on his would-be kidnappers. At least, on Charlie. Apparently, Charlie was known to work as hired muscle, his jobs delivered via his sometimes lawyer. Though not intelligent, Charlie was also not ambitious, which led to him not being curious enough to ask questions like who was employing him or for what. 

This of course made him a fairly popular freelancer. 

But Charlie was a dead end. He didn't know who had hired him or even who Tim was. And since Tim had been unable to find Windbreaker, that left him with only Abercrombie.

So Tim had tapped the mans office. He had not even needed to go inside. He only loitered in the hallway while the cleaner went from office to office and, when their back was turned, clipped the bug on the inside lip of the wastebasket. 

It never failed to amaze him just how easy it was to bug a place. 

So here he sat, for the third consecutive day, drinking his body weight in coffee and whipped cream and trying not to crawl out of his skin with boredom. 

The tap. Tap. Tap. Continued. Maddeningly slow and inconsistent. 

Then a phone rang. 

“Shit,” came wobbling through the speakers. Tim hurried to adjust the settings, racheting up the volume and smoothing out static as best he could. The one downside of not positioning the bug himself was that reception was never perfect. 

The phone continued to ring, accompanied by thumping, some more swearing. It seemed Abercrombie was struggling, probably in getting up and around his desk. Why the phone was so out of the way was odd, but Tim didn't dwell on it.

Finally, Abercrombie said “Hello?”

A pause, the sound of shuffling. “Yes. Yes, I am aware. I—- No! Of course not.”

Tim pressed the headphones tighter to his skull and closed his eyes. That nervousness boded well for any information Tim was going to get. 

“Of course not,” Abercrombie said again. The mans nasal voice pitched even higher. “The boy had a weapon, training. My man sai—“ Another long pause followed by Abercrombie saying, low and desperate “No, sir, I would not— Please, I will find someone better…. Sir? Sir? Oh God, oh God, fuck, please—“

Tim was already lunging upright when a muffled pop came over the speakers. By the time he heard the thud, it was already too late. 

Tossing aside the headphones, Tim pulled his phone from his pocket with one hand and his camera from his pack with the other, angling it towards the entrance. As he rattled off the address to the emergency operator, he snapped pictures of the two men leaving out the front door. 

He hung up before the operator could even request he remain on the line.

Young, suspiciously well dressed for the area with crisp grey suits and polished shoes, the duo walked down the sidewalk. Tim struggled to get his things together, stuffing his empty cups into a plastic bag and using one foot to scuff out the marks he had left in the graveled roof. He couldn’t risk leaving evidence of his presence behind, but they were already almost out of sight. 

With a last wet crunch of drink containers, Tim stuffed the bag into his backpack, sparing a second to hope desperately he wouldn't be cleaning milky sugar residue from the canvas later on. He took off running. 

The edge of he roof bit into the bottom of his foot as he launched across the narrow gap between buildings. The next roof was pitched rather than a flat, not his favorite terrain, and he could already feel the ancient shingles crumbling and sliding under his shoes. He leaned forward in order to skin him fingers lightly over the rooftop as he ran to the side and up, hoping the off center trajectory and using the side of his feet would provide enough traction. 

It did, barely, and he reached the crest in time to see the two men turning into an apartment parking lot and reaching a nondescript grey four door. 

Tim stared at them, blindly dragging his camera from the pack and clicking off the protective lens cap, catching it neatly in the palm of his hand and stuffing it into his back pocket. 

Between shots he studied the pair. The were speaking to one another over the top of the car, the taller of the two smoking. An Armani watched glinted from beneath the edge of his cuff, incongruously extravagant considering the relatively modest clothing and cheep vehicle. 

Neither was familiar to Tim but that was hardly surprising. He doubted Dorrance would use anyone from his own retinue for mere cleanup duty. 

He swallowed back a weak surge of guilt. There was nothing he could have done for Abercrombie. And in the scheme of things, instant death was a blessing. Dorrance had already proved himself capable of far worse. 

Still. The sound might not have been anywhere near to the deafening report from the bus, but his skin was crawling all the same. 

From this angle Tim couldn’t get a shot of the license plate. Keeping his attention on the pair, he carefully let his feet slide down either side of the roof, straddling it, and then leaned forward on his elbows. Getting caught due to his silhouette on the skyline would be a embarrassing and irritating way to lose his anonymity. 

A siren was edging slowly closer but it wasn't until a cruiser drove rapidly by the parking lot that the two seemed to realize it was coming for them. One cursed, body langue and twist of his mouth unmistakable and then wrenched opened the doors. 

As the car rolled into the street, Tim took copious photos of the clearly visible license plate. 

As more cruisers and an ambulance (too late, redundant, he wished it hadn't happened so fast) Tim slid down the other side of the roof, bits of shingle biting into the heel of his palms and the fabric of his jeans. It was shockingly cooler on the shadowed side of the building after spending so long in sun. 

He shot off the edge of the roof, hand closing on the edge of the gutter just long enough to anchor him so he could swing back towards the wall and drop with a clatter on the fire escape. It was in better repair than the roof and Tim had decided on it as his primary escape route when he first scouted the area. 

Mind racing significantly faster than his headlong rush down the fire escape, Tim wondered what Dorrance was planning next. 

Kidnapping Tim had likely been for leverage. His parents were probably under suspicion in regards to the fires and loss of samples and the easiest way to force the truth from them would be through Tim. At least, so the thought went. Tim had his doubts in that regard. 

An alley cat startled as he dropped onto a dumpster, hissing and twisting into an ungainly flip that sent the overfull clattering to the ground. Tim winced and ran the opposite direction. 

By passing the four nearest bus stops, Tim waited until he was a block away from the fifth before calling in the license plate and descriptions of the two men. The voice modulating app he had highjacked for his own purposes took care of any possibility of identification, but when he hung up once again he piped the casing open, using his nails to pry out the battery and snapping the sim card in half. 

As he ducked under the shade of the bus stop, Tim chewed three sticks of gum and dragged the ragged, sharp edges of the card over the pad of his thumb. 

If Dorrance was cleaning house then any subcontractors that came next would be significantly more dangerous than Windbreaker and his crew. Not for the first time Tim wondered what Shiva had told the man, or if she had told him anything at all. Tim wouldn't be surprised if she had simple never spoken to him again once her interest shifted from completing her mission to training Tim. 

Upon reflection that was probably one of the reason Dorrance was seeking out information himself, now. 

The bus rolled to a hissing stop and Tim walked forward, folding the SIM card into the gum and tossing it into the trashcan as he passed. 

Tucking himself into the very back of the bus, directly beneath the emergency exit, Tim scrolled through his recent photo’s and wondered what to do next. 

The six months were almost over and Tim was starting to realize he wasn't going to see much beyond that. 

He was proficient, yes. Likely would be considered on par with a master of the craft. But that was nothing against Shiva. No matter how many blows he managed to land, they were inevitably used against him. None were enough to keep her down or him standing. 

Grunting with effort, Tim shoved up from the floor just in time to avoid a stomping foot that would have shattered his spine. The vibration of heel against mat traveled up his arms and he was already rolling as she pivoted, her other foot coming from the side to kick his jaw. 

Spitting slick, coppery saliva, Tim rolled to his knees, guai crossing overhead just in time to block her descending elbow.

“You are still thinking too much,” she said. Her full weight continued pressing down and his arms began trembling beneath the strain. 

Tim hissed out a wheezing breath and jerked away, disengaging at the cost of a glancing palm strike against his left shoulder. He managed to knock the followup strike aside with the side of the guai, a blow that would have shattered anything one else's wrist. Hers merely curved subtly and twisted to the side. 

At least there was a sheen of sweat on her face now. She might not be red faced and panting and soaked like Tim, but at least he knew she was being forced to work that hard. 

She stepped away from his lunge and continued walking off the mat, once again ending the lesson without comment or warning, simply walking away. Tim huffed in irritation. 

“A bladed weapon would have been more suited to you,” she said. Pulling the scrunchie smoothly from her slightly disarrayed ponytail, she finger combed her hair and flipped it over one shoulder. 

“There are fewer uses for blades,” Tim muttered. He had already dropped to the floor, hurrying through cool down stretches. The bus would be arriving within ten minutes and even an insufficient cool down would be better than the nothing he would get if he didn't take advantage of the few minutes left in the gym. “They’re only good for cutting.”

“And so are you,” Shiva replied flatly. Tim shrugged. 

Since the Windbreakers failed attempt at kidnapping, the lessons had changed. Or, more aptly, Tim had changed. He no longer afforded Shiva the same breathless respect he had before. He still treated her as he would any instructor, with the respect and diligence due to someone treating him something of value. But that was all he did.

Shiva had noted the change. He had seen her studying him.

“Same place tomorrow?”

Shiva nodded. “Here.”

And that was the end of the interaction. 

Tim settled into the back of the bus, directly beside the emergency exit and planted his feet on the edge of the seat as he slouched. The wifi was spotty or even non existent on public transport but all the file he was studying were saved on a thumb drive. He usually wouldn't look at such sensitive information in such a public place, but between his parents being home more often, Shiva’s training and his near nightly excursions made harder by the surveillance on the house, Tim had to seized every available opportunity no matter how risky the location. 

The surveillance was disconcerting, mostly because there were three distinct entities involved. GPD, FBI and what he suspected but had yet to prove were Dorrances men. Going by the price of the their equipment alone Tim knew they were privately funded, unlike the GPD and FBI. 

Tim had nearly had a heart attack the first time he saw the agents. But as the weeks passed and no one stormed the house to arrest him or his parents, he got used to it. Clearly, there was no evidence against them. And as his parents were completely innocent and he no longer did anything at home, there was no cause for concern. In fact, it was almost comforting. With so many eyes and organizations involved, home was likely the safest it had ever been. 

What concerned him now was getting rid of Dorrance once and for all. Slowly but steadily, the man was increasing his hold over Drake Ind. Tim’s hope that the loss of his research and the scrutiny of the government would see the man off had been terribly misplaced. It seemed that every roadblock Tim managed to throw up was plowed right back down. Dorrance was not nearly as clear headed as Tim had previously assumed. 

Still, Tim was slowly and steadily compiling evidence. It was no nearly enough, yet, to see the man charged or even put under serious suspicion. The files that had shown him what Dorrance was using Drake Pharmaceuticals for were not abled to be traced back to Dorrance himself. A few photos of a files spread over the mans carpet was hardly compelling evidence, after all. 

Frustratingly, the man kept his business mostly word of mouth. Very little, if anything, was stored electronically and even less was stored anywhere with internet capability. Most systems, like those in the research labs, were closed. Which made things significantly harder for Tim. 

He had found a few things. Such as the shipments that were steadily increasing in the harbor, mostly coming from Hong Kong. Tim had not had the opportunity to see what those shipments were with the increased security Dorrance had arranged.

What spun around his thoughts most were the unnamed victims. The faces from the files he’d stolen from the research facilities, from Dorrances people. Dozens of them, identified only by a number, a time of acquisition and a time of death. Impersonal, chilling notes of how long they managed to survive. 

People cut down to nothing but timestamps and numbers. 

He knew their faces now. He always would, probably, and couldn't bring himself to mind. He was the only one that cared about their fate, after all, and he never had managed to find out who they were. Most were the homeless of Gotham and the surrounding cities. The undocumented and unaffiliated with no one to search for them. 

The least Tim could do was remember their faces. 

Sighing, Tim tipped his head back agains the seat, eyes narrowing but not closing. He wasn't that stupid. Anymore, are least. 

It was frustrating. The hunger for progress, for success, was gnawing at him from the inside out, a burning pit that just kept getting bigger the longer it remained unfilled. He’d never wanted anything so much as he wanted Dorrance’s downfall but no matter how far he went, no matter what he uncovered, Dorrance remained untouchable. 

The bus hissed to a halt and Tim wasted no time swinging down to the sidewalk and hustling away. The walk home was long but necessary, as were all the side streets and backtracking. So far he had never caught anyone following him, but he wasn't going to let that sooth his paranoia. Clearly, Dorrance had known where Tim would be when Windbreaker was sent to fetch him, though Tim was fairly certain no one had known what he was doing. If what he was doing and who he was doing it with were known, Tim had no doubt he would already be dead. 

A motorcycle sped by, a rush of wind snapping against Tim’s jacket sleeve as the driver cut close to the sidewalk to bypass a car that instantly honked at them. Tim watched it thread through traffic, steadily pulling out of sight, and bit his lip.

He wondered where Jason was. Wondered if he was alright. Wondered if he would ever see him again. 

Readjusting his backpack, Tim jogged onward. 

It had…. occurred to him to reach out to the Bats. Several times, really. Dorrance was just the kind of threat Batman fought against and Tim was proving more and more every day that he wasn't up to fighting it alone. But he still had no solid proof, nothing he could offer that wouldn't cast as much suspicion on his parents as it would on Dorrance. And Tim couldn't risk his parents.

The experiments had been stopped, at least for now, and no one was dying. That had to mean something. Tim told himself he would get help if they started again. Would go to the police if it came down to it. 

But he knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t. He’d never been a good person, had always been greedy, and he couldn't imagine losing what little he had left. 

Home was just a few blocks away and Tim increased his pace to a run. It was still light out, plenty of time to get his homework done and maybe see if anyone was looking to hire his essay expertise. His parents weren’t set to be home for several hours and he was looking forward to having free reign of the house. Even if only so he could lounge on the sofa rather than his bed. 

At first, the sirens barely registered. They were always sounding in Gotham. A constant, background sound like the pounding of surf on a beach. But as he edged nearer and nearer the border of his neighborhood, the more his skin itched. 

There were so many. Sirens from ambulances, fire engines, cruisers. As he turned the last corner, he could hear the sound of dozens of shouting voices. 

The street was alight with colored lights, painting walls and lawns and sidewalks garish red and blue and yellow. Officers in crumpled uniforms were forcing back a milling crowd, racing to form a perimeter with caution tape. 

Tim froze at the entrance of the street. Cold was seeping up from the cement, through his shoes, into his legs and up his spine. It curled around his lungs and squeezed. 

There were people in front of his house. 

The backpack slipped off his shoulders and hit the ground in time with his first step. The sound around him was thick and soupy, slow like the bodies he pushed through, elbowing and clawing between people who didn't move, didn't get out of the way—-

He lunged through the last of them, snagging briefly in caution tape and tearing it off as he ran. 

The front door was open. It was open and empty, no one was standing there. One of the potted ferns that had bracketed the doorway was on its side, soil spilling out over the blue-grey tiles of the stoop, dark brown and smeared. 

People were shouting at him. Someone grabbed at him, so slow it didn't even matter as he flowed out of reach like water. He was pouring forward, no one could stop him, no one could hold onto him because he wouldn't let them.

She was on her side in the grass. Tim had never seen her on the ground in person, though there were hundreds of pictures of her on digs. Dirt on her hands, on her face, streaked through her hair as she smiled and held treasures in her hands. But she had always been immaculate and upright around him. He’d never seen her anything less than perfect and strong. 

One of her shoes were gone. It was very important that it was gone, one of her leather pumps, classic and custom made, with a single line of silver stitching up the back of the heel. They were one of her favorites, she wouldn't want them separated.

He looked for it, saw it through the front door, upright like she had just stepped out of it, but why would she step out of one and not the other?

People were shouting. So loud, he could feel it in his ears, in his bones. People in billowy white suits were sprinting towards him, the lights painting obscuring rainbows over the front of visored hoods. 

“Mom?”

Why was she on the ground? Why was she on the ground?

“Mom?”

“Get him out of there!” Someone yelled. “Fuck sakes, get him away!”

“Mom, please—“ Her face was purple and stiff. There were black tracks dripping down her cheeks. Red smeared beneath her nose, her mouth. 

Her eyes were open and angry. 

“Kid, no, c’mon kid, don’t look,” Someone was saying and oh, there were hands on him. He pulled away, kept walking. “No, baby, please, don’t look. C’mon, we’ve gotta go.”

“Thats my mom,” he said and looked up just long enough to see a pale smear of a face through a visor. A hazmat suit and he couldn't understand why that scared him. “Thats my mom.”

“I know honey.” The voice was scratchy coming from inside the suit. “I know, I’m so fucking sorry, honey, but we’ve got to go, come on, come here.”

Someone else (why were there so many people, why were they pulling him, why couldn't they be quiet) was trying to push something over his face. He batted it away, looking at the door, at his mom, at the lights staining the windows in front of him, the grass under him. 

“Let me go,” he whispered and pulled. He didn't see his dad. Where was he? What had happened? “Let me go!”

“No no no, shit—“

His elbow snapped back, landing neat and solid into a sternum that folded down around it like a collapsing stack of cards. One set of hands fell away and the other followed as he brought his heel down onto someones instep with a crunch of bone. 

And then he was running forward. 

“Dad! Dad, where are you? Where are you?!” 

He was almost at the door, saw the dirt smeared over the front steps, down the walkway, brown interwoven with streaks of bright red. 

Something hit him, knocked him flat and then he was being dragged away. 

His throat hurt, burning like it was tearing, like it was melting down into his chest. Hands were pressing pain into his arms, his legs and shoulders and middle as he was carried away, past his mother, over the sidewalk and into the street. 

“Let me go!” He screamed and strained. Something sharp sunk into his shoulder, a cold burn that spread and warmed as it settled. “Let me go! Mom! Dad!”

Like a lightbulb shattering, there was light and then nothing. 

He woke seated in front of a computer, fingers skating over keys. 

Blinking groggily, his rhythm stuttered briefly before resuming at an even greater speed. Medical charts scrolled in front of him. Two, one his own that was halfway finished doctoring, and the other Jack Drake.

He vaguely recalled waking up alone, in a dim hospital room, shoeless and numb. Remembered slipping out and away and past the first nurses station, swiping a badge from the sleeping woman at the desk. Then wandering until he found an empty records room and the computer inside it. 

His files were completed. Discharged into the care of one of his own alias’s, health confirmed by his families doctor. Address and phone number for both provided, though the phones they were attached to were hidden in the rooftop herb garden of one of the neighbors. 

Hands shaking, Tim saved the updates and curled into the squeaky office chair. 

Jake Drake had been unresponsive to external stimulus for thirteen hours, forty-three minutes and thirteen seconds. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. 

An unidentified gas had seared his respiratory system, leading to extensive damage. Bleeding in the sinus, in the lungs. Probable brain damage from oxygen deprivation. After being put under anesthesia he had not woken again. But the prognosis would have been hopeful were it not for the virus ravaging him from inside out. 

It was as unidentifiable as the gas and equally difficult to treat. The intensity of the randomly spiking fever had also risen more concerns regarding potential brain damage. It was not responding well to treatment, and the symptoms morphed too rapidly for treatments to manage his conditions for long. 

On a separate computer dragged over beside the first was a muted array of videoclips. Most were shot on cellphone cameras but two were newsreels. 

Most were of him. 

Understandable, really, considering the picture he made. All the drama the wolves of the media could want. His mother would have killed him for a such a display. 

Erasing his presence from the two computers, Tim shuffled them back into place. With the paperwork filed, know one could question his disappearance. 

He hesitated for a moment in the stairwell, staring upwards towards the fourth floor ICU. His dad was there. Still alive, for now. Tim knew how easy it would be to cause a distraction, bypass the nurses and the guards and the police officers. He could see hid dad, see him breathing.

But if he did… he knew he wouldn't be able to leave again. 

So he turned and went downwards, vanishing into streets already crowded with the early dawn. 

Tim had stashes all over the city, from the suburbs to the wharf. Some were little more than a few protein bars and a bottle of water. Others were packs full of medical supplies, cellphones, clothing, IDs and cash. A hidden few were hardrives, full of evidence of crimes both his and of others. 

Tim went for the second option. 

Changed, hydrated and fed, he sat perched on a silent AC unit and scrolled through police reports. 

The device had been triggered by the setting of the house alarm. There was something cold about that, Tim thought, strangling his fingers with the string of his zip-up. 

Just from the scene he had seen he knew what had happened. His father went in first, disengaging the alarm. His mother had lingered, likely confirming the schedule with the driver and collecting her briefcase. Inside she she would have locked the door and reset the alarm, as she had doubt thousands of times, and headed for the study. 

She barely got three feet. 

It burned that what should have ensured her safety had been used to destroy her. Tim had no doubt it was intentional. 

His father had already been in the depths of the house, upstairs in the bedroom with the door shut. Only a fraction of the gas had traveled towards him before it dissipated. But what damaged had been done had paved the way from the still weakened virus and now he was ravaged twice over, growing weaker with every minute. 

Tim unlocked clenched teeth with a click of bone, jaw aching. 

He knew who was responsible. He knew. And it didn't matter, anymore, how he brought the man low. Nothing mattered anymore. 

He didn't have his guai. There was no mention of his dropped pack in any of the reports but Tim was unsurprised. Gotham was a city of opportunists. By now, his possessions were strewn throughout pawnshops.

But he didn't need them. 

It wasn't hard to track down Dorrance. The man was making certain to be seen. So helpful in his efforts to aid investigators, so distraught in his interviews with the press, so sincere in his promises to see the culprits brought to justice.

He was at Drake Ind headquarters, neatly inserting himself into the vacuum there. Sleeves rolled up, a serious set to his face that softened whenever a concerned worker came to him for consolation and direction. 

Tim watched from the rooftop across the street and felt nothing. 

He blinked and the sun was setting. Blinked again and was in the street, shadows clinging around him as Dorrance exited the building. 

The man stood, flanked by four guards as his assistant stepped away to call the car. Six men, all doubtless armed and doubly dangerous for it. Five obstacles and only one target worth notice. 

The knife sitting in Tim’s left hand was warm as skin, held loose and secure and steady. He did not remember were it had come from. 

He stepped off the curb. 

“If you strike now it will be your only opportunity. Are you so confident in your success?”

Dorrance stood with hands tucked into bent elbows, fingers of one hand tapping as he frowned thoughtfully. The tail of discreet earphones led to his phone. He was relaxed and confident, web already spun and prey dead in it, nothing to perturb him any longer. 

“Such a battle would be well worth viewing but it would not end in you favor. No matter your skill, his is greater.”

“He killed her.”

The words were dead and heavy. It was no relief to drop them. 

Shiva stepped into place beside him. “And this poor attempt at revenge would shame her.”

Tim frowned. 

It was true. His mother would be appalled if he attempted this and failed. She would sneer at his lack of planning, the crudity of it. 

But she was dead. 

His mind was already halfway across the street, blade puncturing the jugular of the first obstacle, when he was jerked back. 

“Let me go!” He snarled, twisting to knocking the base of the knife against the side of Shiva’s wrist. Her hand was knotted in the hood of his sweater, dragging him inexorably back into the alley behind them. 

When her grip did not relent he dropped to his knees, arms sliding free of his sleeves as he ducked his head out. Before blue micro fleece cleared from view he brought the side of his empty fist against the back of her knee. Just before contact she flexed ever so slightly and folded her leg, catching his wrist between thigh and calf. 

The thud of his heart drowned out the rest of the world, smothered his thoughts. The knife grazed the top of Shiva’s knee and she released him with a shove that sent him deeper into the alley, shoulder scraping along one wall. Distantly, he heard the muffled thud of a door closing and the purr of an engine fading. 

Rage flooded through him, spilled over his tongue with a metallic taste and he screamed as he launched himself at her.

This time when she hit him, solid, well placed blows that would have dropped him to the floor the previous day, they barely slowed him. His knife opened a shallow crevice across the span of her chest and collar bones, frustratingly close to her throat. In return he got a strike to his shoulder that had his arm spasming but not relenting its grip on the knife. 

“Get out of my way!” He screamed, but it was too late, it was too late, Dorrance was gone. Out of reach again. And it was Shiva’s fault. All of this was her fault. 

“Did you know?” He demanded, accepting a strike that set his ears ringing just so he could reach her belly with a slash that caught nothing but cotton. “Did you know again?!”

She knocked aside his arm and stepping in close, knee sinking into his stomach. He refused to fold over it, even as all the air in his chest vanished in a painful, too fast exhale that left his lungs feeling collapsed and stuck together like the damp interior of a deflated balloon. He twisted his head and bit the edge of her shirt, free hand snarling alongside at as he held her in place while stabbing at her back. The tip of the knife grazed over her spine before she knocked him away. 

Spitting threads, he rolled to his feet, already lunging. “Did you know?!”

“Not this time,” Shiva said and darted out a leg to trip him. He only fell forward, clamping his things around one of hers and twisting as he fell, forcing her to following or risk dislocating her hip. She grunted on impact as they landed, the first sound he had ever managed to pull from her. 

He’d always thought he would feel pride if he managed it. Now he felt nothing but anger. 

They grappled, forearms and wrist knocking together as she redirected the knife and he tried his best to bury it in her.

And then, in some way he could never remember, he won. One moment they were fighting, the next blood was welling up, kissing the side of his hand.

The knife was buried hilt deep in the meat of her arm, just beneath the shoulder. Even around the obstruction blood was welling steadily out, rolling down onto the filthy alley floor, saturating Shiva’s shirt. 

Tims breathing was all he could hear. Rasping and too quick, not at all like he’d been trained. It sounded like an animial, like a cornered, dying dog. 

He could barely feel her fingertips pressing sharp against he bottom of her left eye. A faint ache of pressure that was a bare unit away from being enough to pop it from his skull. 

The blood was so slick. 

All the anger slid away. It felt like slime, heavy and thick, and it left a cold residue in its wake. 

He tried to let go of the knife but is fingers just twitched. He wanted to pull away, get away, but he couldn’t take the knife with him. Couldn’t just pull it out. That was… that was the wrong thing to do, right? 

“Excellent,” Shiva purred. Her hand fell away, rough fingertips dragging down his face, trails that were hot and then abruptly icy. 

“I’m—“ He swallowed. He was shaking. “Shifu, I didn’t mean.”

“But you did,” she said. The black of her eyes were sparking with the sulfur yellow glow of the streetlight and her teeth were bloody as she smiled. “Didn’t you?”

And he did. He did mean to. And he had done what he set out to do. 

The shakes faded away, taking colors and sensation with them. His fingers slipped off the knife and he drew back, settled on his knees above Shiva. No more blood was bubbling around it and as he watched her draw it steadily out, there was no gushing flood, only a slight trickling that taper off to nothing. 

Shiva inspected the knife, flipping it through a variety of grips, blood flicking off of it and striking gently over Tims face.

“A decent blade,” she said and tucked it into her belt. 

She rolled easily to her feet and stalked deeper into the alley, stooping to lift something from the ground before returning. Still settling onto his heels on the ground, Tim looked blankly upwards. 

“What have I said about dropping your weapons, boy?” She said softly and dropped the backpack into it lap. It began to slip off and Tim caught it, dragging it towards him. The hard angles of his guai dug into his chest and he curled around them, nails digging into nylon. 

“A weapon lost is an opponent armed,” he recited quietly. 

“A lesson that you fail to grasp,” Shiva said. She stood over him and Tim met her eyes blankly. There were bruises blooming on her face, the side of her throat. The rip through the front of her shirt was edged in blood and the ragged cut beneath it was a streak of red. 

Standing still and observing him, she seemed strong enough to topple empires. 

“I shall let you live for now. When next we meet you can prove your worth.”

“You’re leaving?” Tim said quietly. It wasn’t surprising. There were only a few weeks left of her deadline and the matter would have ended anyway. It didn’t matter much to him either way, now. 

“I am.” She glanced towards the street as a car purred by, mouth twisting into a smirk. “When you attempt this again you will not shame me or your mother.”

Tim shook his head. The world felt large and crushing and somehow empty, and he was very small beneath it. But the declaration felt like something to grab hold of. Something solid in a world of smoke and crumbling ash. 

“I won’t,” he said to the empty shadows. All that was left of Shiva was the blood on his face and the bruises on his skin.

Backpack over his shoulders, bloody hands in his pockets, he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW's for pretty graphic death of a parent, shock, losing time, violence and murder via gas and biological weapon
> 
> I finally returned! Thank you all for your patience and nice comments. Both were very appreciated. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. Comment if you feel the urge, and have a good day/night!


	12. Chapter 12: Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several months ago...

Sand ground under his boot like broken glass, microscopic gravel and the shells of long dead things. The surf was an oppressive roar, like an evenly weighted and lump blanket, weighing him down, making him clumsy. 

And, fuck, everything hurt. His joints were aching like an old mans. Not that any of the old men of his acquaintance actually seemed to have aching joints. B and Alfred were about as decrepit as fucking Ledecky.

But damn. The pool of evil should have at least dealt with the pain if it dealt with the injuries themselves. Fucking scam.

Cupping his palm around the sputtering cherry of his half crumpled cigarette, Jason squinted against the wind and laughed sourly. 

Not like he didn’t deserve it. Karma was a bitch, but she was fair, he’d give her that. Penance for all his sins. For all the sins he was planning to commit. 

401k for his purgatorial future. 

A foghorn blared and was echoed by a startled mutt somewhere further up the beach, its high howls as piercing to his brain as the cold was to his fingers. He scowled at the water, all silvered up and pretty from diffused moonlight but still polluted and disgusting for all its current glamour. 

Under the wind, the howling, the surf, he could hear laughter. 

Sucking down some nicotine, he held it in his lungs for moment and then breathed out both the smoke and the bowel clenching terror. 

Whether it was the old Deadman’s Puddle Talia Talia threw him in, left over brain damage or plain old trauma, ghosts were following him around like Peter Pan’s recaptured shadow; unhappy, eery and hating his guts. Whether they would dissipate in the sun or still linger, he didn’t know. Didn’t care, either, because a ghost just meant the thing it originally was, was dead. 

And Jason knew he’d never sleep again if the Joker wasn’t dead. 

Rolling the stiffness and pain out of his shoulders even knowing it would settled back in minutes, Jason dropped the stumpy butt of his cigarette onto the sand and ground it out. Who knew what sort of flammable shit was brought in on the tide. 

He could just make out the sand of oars striking water, the soft murmur of voices. His ride was almost on the beach. 

Glancing over his shoulder, he could make out the hazy, glowing outline of Gotham through the fog. Might be a hell-pit but it was home. Even if he didn’t want it to be. 

Leaving was the only option he had, though. Couldn’t stay. Not now, maybe never again. Couldn’t face Bruce and his fucking guilt and relief and desperate love. Couldn’t handle Dick and his feral care, the way his hands and hands were always catching at him, clinging. Didn’t want to spend another second with the Brat who bristled and barked like a happy little dog in new territory, determined to mark every crack and crevice and stake his claim. 

The one Jason really regretted leaving was Al. The only one who didn’t treat him any different now than he had before. Who had only spent a few minutes drinking him in before smiling and welcoming him home like he was just in from a regular patrol. Who, when he caught Jason repelling out the window, had just smiled and told him to be safe and hadn’t tried to tie him down with even more suffocating care. 

Jason had paid all the dues he owed. He’d gotten the Brat out of his psycho families clutches and into Bruces only slight less crazy ones. He’d officially resigned from the team. He’d pulled down that fucking shrine in the Batcave and burned it to slag. 

There was nothing left for him to do here.

But that didn’t mean he was done entirely. 

Flexing his hand against his leg, Jason watched the rowboat slide up the sand, two sailors leaping off to drag it further up. Three passengers wasted no time escaping, lingering only to pass a fat envelope into a sailors hands before sprinting up the beach and out of sight. 

It was funny. Just a few months ago he’d have been beating smugglers to an easily bound pulp and dumping them on GPD’s stoop. Now he was hiring their services with stolen money and turning a blind eye to whatever they were carrying.  
Funny. Joker had apparently killed at least parts of him after all. 

But even if half of him had bled away and burned to ash or been drowned in a lake of burning green, he was still Jason Todd. He’d never lain down and let the world fuck him before and he wasn’t about to start now. And whatever shit life threw at him, he learned from it. He always learned from it, like a scavenger picking the marrow from a corpse. 

And he’d learned a lot these last few months.

Such as family lied as easily as strangers. Such as strangers could be more reliable than family. And that the only way to keep a monster down was to kill it. 

Ra’s’s sharp edged face with its smirk that couldn’t quite hide the dissatisfaction scrolled over the back of his mind. Another monster, one Jason might just put down someday.

He didn’t trust the man. Only an idiot or a fanatic would. But he was inclined to believe what he’d been told. Ra’s would never save Jason of his own accord and so it was only logical that someone had hired him. Had made him. 

And Ra’s had told him what it cost. He’d made sure of it. Every penny, every business and family life ruined just so he could keep his. ‘The kindness of Strangers’ he’d sneered, ‘is so similar to destruction. Do you not agree, mutt?’.

True enough. Jason knew he wasn’t worth the price it had taken to save him. But someone else thought he was. Even when B didn’t, someone else had thought he was worth saving and had followed through. They’d torn the world apart just to keep him alive and he wasn’t going to forget that. 

Maybe they were a monster too. Maybe they’d just used him as an excuse for causing chaos, or maybe it was long con, a plan to use his gratitude as strings to control him someday. 

None of that mattered. What mattered was they’d come for him when no one else had. What mattered was they killed his monster. 

Ra’s was looking for a Stranger. Bruce would be too, if he ever learned about the connection between Gotham’s collapsed infrastructure and Jason’s miraculous survival.

Jason was going to make their acquaintance first. 

“Coming?” One of the sailors snapped in guttural Russian and Jason snorted. 

“Yeah. I’m coming.”

Slinging an overloaded duffle over his shoulder, Jason glanced at the shadow behind him. The gaping grin of a throat laid open matched the yellow, manic crescent of an eternal smile. 

Laughing, Jason walked away. 

He had a Stranger to find. 

And few monsters to put down along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated twice today, so be sure you read chapter 11!
> 
> This is set a couple of months before Tim began his campaign against Dorrance. I couldn't find a place I wanted to put it, so I'm just throwing it in here. 
> 
> Comment if inclined, hope you enjoyed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW's at end of chapter

The first few weeks after….. After, no one thought to wonder where Tim was. Some of that was admittedly through his own machinations. A few words here and there, oh, the boy is with this relative or that. He’s fine, he’s well, no need to wonder about him. It was still vaguely surprising, in the distant way everything felt these days, that it had not occurred to anyone to follow up on him. Not the police that had interviewed him. Not the nurses and doctors that saw him huddling alone in his fathers room every day. Not school or the teachers therein. No one thought to investigate. 

It was good that they hadn't of course. He stayed in the little condo at the waterfront, a holdover from the days when the Drakes were still seen at the marina. The townhouse was cordoned off, and would be until his father woke. Even then, would they even be allowed to take anything from the scene of a suspected terrorist attack? A biological one no less? Tim thought it was unlikely. 

There was nothing incriminating there. Not in regards to Tim or his parents, at least. But the thought of so many impersonal hands shuffling through his belongings, tearing them apart to glean evidence only to dispose of them, made his skin crawl. He determined to be more sympathetic from here on in his own investigations. 

The condo was comfortable at least. An expansive view of the marina, ink-black water and lights softened to a glow through the fog. He had holed up in the master bedroom. His parents had never spent a full night there. 

In the family home (not theirs any longer, no, it had been bought by one of the many vultures that had grown fat on the carnage Tim had created) he had never dared set more than a toe in his parents rooms. It had been one of the few places he could not intrude, whether they were there to enforce it or not. He remembered standing at the open door, looking in at the corner of a big bed, the gleam of a mirror, the pale jade backing of his mothers antique brush set, a scarlet tie draped over a chair. Only the housekeeper went in once a week during the Drakes absence. 

This room didn't feel the same way. None of them had, after they moved. 

Curled in a duvet that was beginning to smell like nothing so much as stale sweat and fake cheese from the puffs he’d eaten for dinner, he dully considered what to do next. 

There wasn't anything.

There should be something! Just, the very start of a plan. A hint of how to proceed from here. But all could he could see was his mother, spread out on the ground, blood in her eyes, mouth. 

Her nails had been broken. A new manicure, classic french tips with the faintest opal sheen over top. There’d been marks all over he throat, her chest. It was easy to see how she had scrabbled desperately against her own skin when she became unable to breath. Had, when that did nothing, dragged herself from the house by fingertips and determination out the door. Looking for help.

Not that she ever found it.

Help was out of reach from her first step into that house. 

Crushing his face into the pillow Tim bit his tongue and kept his eyes open, eyelashes catching on the case and tears wicked away instantly. 

His fault.

It circled in his brain. He could feel the movement of it. Like a spoon lazily swirling through congealed mousse, scraping against the sides of the bowl. This was all his fault. 

The doorbell chimed. 

Tensing, Tim pushed upright and squinted blearily at the cracked door between him and the lounge. His stomach, already a perpetual gordian knot, twisted tighter. 

Who could have found him? No one knew he was here. No one knew anyone was here. He only showered when he was certain no one was in the the nearby units and never turned the lights on after dark. He hadn’t been stupid enough to be caught on any cameras. 

Police? Probably not. Working the stiffness of his body into a loose ache with a few rolls of his shoulders, he edged into the living room as the door chimed again. 

Social services were equally unlikely. There were no family friends. And a burglar would not announce their presence so blatantly. 

And he didn’t think Shiva would want anything to do with him now…

Feet dragging through the carpet, mismatched socks several times too big sliding down with every step, he eased to the entryway and stood on his toes to peer through the old fashioned security lookout. 

His entire body went cold. 

A rugged face. Blond stubble. Broad shoulders and hazy eyes. A familiar smile directed at the peephole as though aware that Tim had arrived and was watching. 

Tim’s mind was abruptly, blessedly silent for perhaps that first time in his life. 

He unlocked the door. 

Dorrance’s men waited in the hall, bracketing the door. Tim had no doubt there were many more of them scattered throughout the building. Probably into the marina as well. 

But they barely made an impression on him. They were ultimately the least important thing at the moment. The only thing that mattered was the man across from him and how he was going to die. 

Dorrance sat on the sofa (antique, french, 1700s and far too delicate in appearance for a man of his mass) looking as effortlessly comfortable as if it were his own, in place he controlled. Perhaps he even thought so. Tim hardly looked as though he were in control of himself, much less anything else. By right of might, this was now Dorrance’s kingdom. 

Tim hunched deeper into the armchair he had huddled in, a blanket draped around his shoulders and cinched tight with bloodless fists. He stared at the murderer across from him and waited. 

“I’m so very sorry for you loss, Timothy,” Dorrance said softly. He leaned forward, elbows resting on knees and cane drooping sideways from his loose grip. 

Tim didn't blink and his heart did not stutter. “Thank you.”

Dorrance nodded gravely. “You did well coming here. Very clever go you to go to ground after… what happened.”

A direct threat? No. An insinuation of one. But for what purpose? Twisting the hem of the blanket around his fingers, he frowned and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Your father is still unresponsive, unfortunately. I visited him this morning and he appears to be doing well.”

“That was kind of you,” Tim whispered. Dorrance smiled wider. 

“No, it was nothing. I couldn't simply abandoned my own friends. Or, for that matter, their children.”

The ice in Tim’s body shifted, the cold silence in his head cracking just slightly before it returned. “W-what do you mean?”

“I mean, your parents registered me as your godfather some months back, in case something happened to them.” A pained expression, sincere, sad, drifted over his face and he shook his head. “I suppose they must have suspected something like this might occur…. If only they had reached out, perhaps it could have been avoided.”

A lie. A lie, a lie, a lie. His parents would not have done so. And if they had, he would have known. He kept abreast of every legal development that involved him, made sure nothing would catch him off guard. His plate was too full to have a surprise dumped on it. 

Which meant any documents that existed (and Tim had no doubt they did) had been conjured up by Dorrance himself. Likely over the past few days. But why would he? How could this benefit him at all? Tim doubted the man knew that he was the cause of all his recent troubles. If the attack proved anything, it was that his parents were either the suspects, or considered a potential leak. Either way, Tim should be completely irrelevant.

Tim clenched his fists tighter, tighter, the dull pain intensifying with every incremental increase in pressure until his bones shrieked with it. Dorrance settled his sightless eyes on him and his face was grim, serious. Trustworthy. 

A lie. 

“I protect my friends, Timothy.” White, straight teeth flashed in a humorless smile and he leaned closer with a barely perceptible sway of his body. “And I consider you my friend.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

With a nod, Dorrance eased back. “I have car waiting outside. If its alright with you we can go home right now. Or stay here for a while longer, if you wish. I promise I will take care of you until your father wakes.”

And Tim didn't need to think about it. He couldn't kill Dorrance here. The man was several times his size and experience and Tim had no weapon that could equalize them. And any attack would have to be guaranteed to succeed. One failure and he would lose his chance and his life. 

Living with the man would provide him countless opportunities. And perhaps he could even destroy the man first. Make his empire crumble and let him suffer before ending it. He deserved it, after all. Karma was stacked against him and Tim was in the perfect a position to give it push and set it toppling down like dominoes. 

“Lets go.”

Living with Dorrance was astonishingly different from living with anyone else, Tim found. 

The house was luxurious. Classic victorian with a tastefully refurbished interior that maintained all the antique charm. Fully staffed, a shock in itself, with a constant stream of visitors. Some perfectly normal upper class peers and some that only arrived in the dark, silently, and left the same way.

Tim’s suite was all dark wood and warm colors, glazed windows looking over the garden and carpets that were like art. It was a change from the clinically cold and white decor his parents had always preferred and Tim felt sick to realize he liked it. Liked the oversized, high backed armchairs and deep bookshelves and wall sconces, the warm toned lighting and soft bed. 

Another difference was the company. Tim was rarely alone. Was never unmonitored. No one followed him, no one tried to manage his comings and goings. But he could feel the eyes of the staff on him when he wandered the house. Knew the driver that took him to and from school stayed just out of sight around the block. Knew the new phone Dorrance had handed to him with a broad smile had a tracker. 

And, most unfortunately, Dorrance was set on being… involved. 

Seated at the mans left hand at the dinner table, for once only the two of them with no casual drop-by guests, Tim watched the man neatly cut his steak, hands unerring and graceful as he swept up a crystal of red wine. The cane sat propped against the back of his chair. These days he rarely bothered to mask his eery proficiency. He rarely played at being truly blind now. 

Every morning and night they ate together. “I wouldn't want to see you deprived of a sense of family, no matter how poor a substitute I am,” he had said wryly. As though he wasn't fully aware that Tim had barely had contact with his parents at all. 

There were many subtle barbs like it. Tim knew what they were, knew they were meant to prove how much more favorable Dorrance’s own guardianship was. Highlighting the previous supposed lack of care and providing everything he could possibly want. Attention, affection, pride. 

Tim knew what he was doing. But, as was proving the usual with the man, he did not know why.

“How was school?” Dorrance asked.

“It was alright. The usual.” Prodding rosemary roasted green beans across his plate, Tim kept his head down and shoulders loose, though his eyes remained on Dorrance. 

Who only grinned charmingly and laughed. “Come now. Feel free to tell me anything, I won’t be bored. Promise.”

“Just the usual. Uh, except for a seminar on the Apollo space mission. That was interesting.”

“I imagine so. And how were your friends? I hope you know you can invite them over.”

“Of course,” Tim murmured. 

Hah! As if. It had been about as pleasant as digging his heart out with a dull spork, but he had made sure to distance himself from Steph as soon as he came back to school. It helped (it hurt) that she seemed just as distracted as he was. She… barely resisted the separation at all. 

And he would never bring her to the attention of Dorrance.

“Good. I’m glad.”

Tim already knew the man had his school records, from kindergarten onwards. All his records, in fact. Medical, dental, everything in regards to his education, trust-funds, extracurriculars. The man had even asked about his gymnastics and ballet background.

It was oppressive. All of it. He hadn't thought he would feel so hunted when he was the one doing the stalking. When he was the one with a secret motive. 

But Dorrance was always there. Always had something to say that knocked him off balance, sent him scrambling for a response. Always commenting on how impressive this or that accomplishment was but how much better he could do. How much better he could do with Dorrance helping him. 

“Timothy?”

Blinking, Tim jerked, dragging himself out of his own head. He swallowed, grabbing for his glass of water and nearly fumbling it. “Sorry, sorry, what did you say?”

“Are you sure you're alright? Are you feeling ill?”

Tim frantically shook his head. That was the last thing he could stand right now. Yet more attention and prodding and questions. “No, I’m fine. Just woolgathering.”

“If you say so.” Dorrance paused and waited attentively for further response before nodding. “I was just saying there is a gala to celebrate the new wing of the museum of science. As a sponsor I am obligated to go and was hoping you would be willing to attend as well? It would do you good to get out of the house again, for something other than school.”

Tim hummed thoughtfully and weighed his options. Somehow he found it unlikely that a refusal would be respected. Dorrance might not force him to go in the same way as his parents, with their implacable decisions, but he would find some way to twist everything to suit his desired outcome. Some manipulation that Tim would be unable to dodge without revealing that he knew he was being manipulated and therefore that he was aware Dorrance had been doing so. And it might be useful to attend for his own ends. He could see who the man interacted with, who he snubbed. Could possibly even vanish into the crowd for a while and find some time to research without worrying about someone appearing over his shoulder. 

But the thought of attending an event he had only ever attended with his parents made him nauseous. His belly hollowed out and he felt the beginning of sweat. What was he supposed to say? What was the goal for the evening? His mother had always given him a rundown on the way to any event he attended, a loose script to follow as well as clearly spelling out the desired outcome. He had never had to figure it out for himself. 

Without realizing it he had turned to look expectantly at Dorrance and realized with an abrupt, painful clench of horror that he was hoping for the same from him.

And Dorrance must have realized it because he smiled wider and told him.

The new suit was perfectly tailored, comfortable and uncomfortable at once, the way a good suit should be. His tie was red, an oddly unsettling change from his usual navy blue, and rather than the soft, loose yet neat style he had always worn his hair it was slicked back from his face. Whenever he looked in the mirror he saw a stranger, felt like he was wearing the skin of a freshly stripped animal, slimy and unpleasant. So he didn't look.

Tim hadn’t fought it when one of Dorrances ever revolving personal assistants had appeared in his room and taken charge of his appearance. It had clearly been on the mans orders, right down to the silver, subtly scaled cufflinks that he replaced the ones he had taken from his fathers drawer in the marina condo (and that hadn't sent a shard of terror into his heart, not at all. It was just not-so-precious metal, it meant nothing. It didn't matter that they were gone and he might never see them again).

The gala had been in full swing for several hours now. In defiance of fashion Dorrance had arrived early, coordinating with some of the museum staff and the charity affiliates in charge of the event. He was solicitous and genuinely helpful, charming everyone and of course not noticing the unsubtle press that were taking down every second of it. 

Tim trailed behind. Equally charming but not so helpful. He knew he was a sharp contrast to Dorrance, his pale skin and delicate build against the mans great bulk and tawny coloring. A perfect foil, and he had no doubt photos of the two of them would be in the papers come morning. 

This was, in a way, Tims debut. His debut as Dorrances ward, at least, and his first official public appearance after his mothers death. The jackals of the press had already stripped the story’s bones clean, but now Tim was here and they were front and center, ready to get at the juicy marrow. 

All but orphaned, victim of a savage attack just as his parents had been. Taken in by the benevolent new face of the year. A sad but heartwarming story sure to titillate. 

It made him sick. But it was at least somewhat reassuring to know that this was at least one of the reasons Dorrance was bothering with him. A grand gesture of charity would catapult him into the publics good graces in a way charm alone could not quite manage. 

Fine. Tim could let the man use him. He would play the Dickensian damsel-boy and give an oscar worthy performance. 

‘Like a con,’ a memory said with a wry edge ‘Soften people up with something cute’.

By now all the guests had arrived and the crush was centered in the front entrance. The ceiling three stories overhead was all crisscrossed shadows and dull iron, the harsh industrial influence softened and turned mysterious through clever lighting. The floor to ceiling glass wall overlooked the plaza in front, the fountain in its center circling through warm amber and red and cold champagne gold. The fireworks display scheduled for midnight was already being assembling and Tim watched as technicians worked.

Dorrance had urged him away from his side for the first time that evening and Tim was almost tempted to prostrate himself before any deity that might be responsible for the reprieve. Instead he plucked a cracker topped with an artful swirl of pate’ and bit of parsley from a passing caterer and made his way casually through the crowd.

The south eastern corner was the least occupied, with little traffic, unlike the eastern wall that lead to the kitchens and utility rooms or the northern wall the were the restrooms saw a steady stream (pun not intended and not appreciated) of guests. 

Easing between two twenty foot banners of silky polyester, printed with the the ultra modern motif of the gala and the long spool of the sponsors names streaming beneath it, Tim nibbled the corner of his cracker and settled in to watch. 

After licking the last crumbs from his fingers, he grabbed the miniature notebook he had taken to carrying from his breast pocket and flipped to a blank page. The layout of the building was already sketched out, and he spent a moment penciling where certain things were situated, such as the two drinks bars and the buffet, as well as the podium. Next he wrote down the names, appearance and interactions of people of note. He had already caught sight of Selina Kyle in a Dior dress, a different ring on his finger every time she passed by. He wondered if any of them would be returned to the original owners, or if they would appear someplace calculated to cause the most embarrassment when found. None of them had appeared to fit her particular criteria of plunder, after all. 

The notes were written in a deliberately messy hand, a mixture of sloppy Korean, english and, recently, a bastardized flat braille that looked more like random smudges than anything else. It was his preferred method of writing in a public venue when he didn't want a casual observer to catch sight of a recognizable sentence, but he hadn't been able to use it for a while. 

Brushing the blunted tip if his pencil against a half complete sentence, he bit his lip. 

His father had never liked the fact it was Tims third language, preceded by french and english. Just as he had been unenthused and embarrassed by the ballet and music lessons. Drake Industries had no interests in South Korea and likely never would, so it was even more of waste than the french. But Janet had barely needed to hold firm before Jack’s disinterest overcame his exasperation. 

It was the one and only thing Janet had ever taught Tim personally. The smell of tea and ink, how the familiar cadence of her voice changed to a different lilting, tripping roll like raindrops. How the only time she had ever spoken words not based solely in reality was when she carefully enunciated fairy tales from a land he had never heard of before then. The feel of a hairpin digging sharp into his cheek, snapping against his lips when his pronunciation fell short, the way his mothers skin had been so unbelievably warm when her hand wrapped around his and guided the glide of his pen. 

Those lessons had been the longest stretch of time he had ever spent in her company. Had been the most he had ever learned of her, offhand remarks of her quiet mother determined to impart her home culture to her daughter in a land and household that was hostile to its existence. Tim had never met his grandmother, dead long before his birth, so he did not know whether there had been any similarity between mother and daughter. 

He had only met his grandfather once. He remembered the pinching grip of his mothers fingers on the nape of his neck as he obediently spoke solely in the mans native french and carefully gave no hint of any other language.

He was so absorbed in recalling every minute instance he could remember that it took several seconds for the prickling on his skin to register. 

Tucking the book into his jacket with a sleepy yawn tucked behind his palm, Tim searched through lowered lashes for his observer. It took little time to find them. 

Standing only a few yards away, gaze blatantly locked on Tim, was a boy in a immaculate three piece suit of severe and unrelenting black, from the tip of his shoes to his artfully knotted tie. Slicked back black hair was slowly losing position, a few errant strands drooping over his forehead. Despite the perfect posture and blank yet haughty expression, he had all the tell tale signs of a child reaching the end of the their patience in the face of constant social harassment. Tim had enough experience in that area to be instantly sympathetic. 

But he did not give the kid the commiserating smile he usually would, because he recognized that face and anyone even peripherally involved with Bruce Wayne was dangerous. 

Damian Wayne met his stare with flat one of his own, a ferocious scowl trying its best to press wrinkles into a youthfully chubby face. At ten he was already broader than Tim and only a few inches shorter. 

Tim hadn't had the opportunity to look into the boys background. He had surfaced alongside Jason, announced without preamble into the limelight alongside the previous two wards. A blood son, an heir whose origins were indisputable. The entire city and the international world of business were in upheaval. Who would the company go to now? Were all those years fighting to get into the good graces of Jason and Dick now worthless? How should they go about getting close to Damian, who was foreign, educated and self possessed?

Tim had felt sorry for the kid. He knew what it was like to be circled by vultures, after all, and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Even someone who seemed for all intents and purposes more than capable of handling it. 

The resemblance between Bruce and his son was uncanny on film, but Tim found himself seeing far more differences now they were face to face. 

Smiling, Tim waved. “Hi.”

“Who are you and why are you surveilling this gathering?” The child demanded, making a good attempt to stare threateningly down his nose. 

Tim let his eyebrows do what they wanted and lift. He had heard the kid was blunt but that was a little on the nose. The way a full force, bare knuckled punch was. 

“Good evening to you too. I’m Tim, nice to meet you.”

Damian snorted like a disturbed horse and stomped closer. And, alright, Tim could admit that the kid was a natural talent at intimidation, but he was living with his own mothers psychopathic, terrorist murderer. A child several years his junior wasn't going to shake him. He crossed his arms in a blatant mimicry of the other boys pose and they settled in to stare at one another. 

Tim won of course. Tim was used to staring blankly into nothing. 

“Were you spying upon myself and Father?” Damian demanded. 

“No,” Tim replied honestly. He hadn't been. Or at least, not solely. And he wasn't stupid enough to give them any more attention than anyone else. “I was mostly watching Sir Dorrance.”

Damian snorted but the tightness of his shoulders eased slightly. “That would be unwise. The man is dangerous, keep yourself away.”

This was becoming increasingly bizarre, Tim thought with a distant feeling of hysteria. Where were Damians handlers? Surely he must have some, because otherwise it would a Russian roulette of scandal every time he stepped out the door. “Uh… listen, you probably shouldn't say things like that? Just, people might hear.”

“There is no one within hearing distance,” Damian declared in the same tone an authoritarian nanny would use to point out the obvious to an addled toddler. The sort of haughty that should be impossible to replicate. “And I am trying to do a good deed for the day.” A dark look shaded over the green blue of his eyes. “I have been informed it is an essential tool for building ones good character.”

Tim stared. Blinked a little, because he had already done one stare down tonight and his eyes were dry. Wished desperately for the coffee that Dorrance had taken to depriving him of. 

Damian was still watching him expectantly. 

“Yeah, that sounds like a good tool. Thank you for the concern. And, uh, good luck on the… character building.”

Damian nodded in solemn acceptance. And then stepped neatly into place an arms length away, back to the wall and shoulder brushing the bottom edge of one lurid banner. 

Shit.

The silence was crushing. Tim steadfastly kept his attention straight ahead. He could feel the full weight of Damians stare against the side of her head like a sandbag trying to smother him. 

Across the room a space had been cleared for dancing and the full orchestra was beginning to play a traditional waltz. Dorrance was being led onto the floor by a widowed socialite, inheritor of her husbands business and deciding shares. She was tall and pretty, and seemed charmed by Dorrances laughing request for her to take the lead. Tim had seen the ploy used before, on his mother even, though she had not been so thoroughly taken in. Rather she had seemed appreciative of the tactic. 

Tim could feel the the arms of his suit wrinkling from the force of his grip as he stared at Dorrances massive hand cupping the woman's side. He would definitely feel her heart beating. His mothers heart, her frame being even smaller, would have been even easier to feel. 

Dorrance must not have thought of that when he killed her. 

“Tim?”

Twitching, Tim snapped his attention back to Damian. He had somehow managed to forget the kid was even there. 

“Sorry,” he said, swiping his hand through his hair, head cocked sheepishly. He smiled. “I was thinking.”

Frowning again, Damian snorted. “You were watching Dorrance. What did I just inform you of?”

The kid was bizarrely insistent on the matter and Tim winced, shrugged and said “Well, it would be kind of hard to keep my distance from him. He is my guardian after all.”

Damian tensed. With a grunt of… maybe frustration? he stared at Dorrance. 

“He is not fit.”

Tim glanced surreptitiously around at the volume of the declaration and winced when several heads turned their way. He knocked one shoulder companionably against Damians and hissed through a broad smile.

“Shhh! Do not say that.”

Damian bristled like a cat encountering water. “I shall say whatever I wish, especially when it is accurate.”

Good God. The kid was actively socially suicidal and should by no means be unsupervised. What was Brace Wayne thinking bringing him out into society? At this rate Damian was going to be at the epicenter of a social slaughter that had not been seen in decades. 

“No,” Damian turned away and Tim desperately gripped his shoulder and squeezed. “No, listen. You can’t say things like that, not here. It would be bad for you and bad for you father and bad for me. Very, very bad.”

Damian had slowly moved from staring in cold offense at Tims hand on him to staring at his face. The murder had also slowly leeched away, though the expression that took its place was too difficult to place. He crossed his arms and jutted out his chin.

“Explain.”

Thank God. Settling back against the wall but leaning close to keep the conversation as private as possible, Tim tried to formulate the right way to teach the kid how not to torpedo his standing among Gothams elite. 

“Okay. Dorrance is a big player here.” How to explain? Some sort of violent simile would work, considering how feral the child was. Tim looked closer at the kid, saw a few strands of dark fur lodged in the threads of his cuffs buttonholes, peeking from beneath obsidian cufflinks. And animal lover, perhaps? Tim could work with that. Sweeping a quick glance around for any listeners, he leaned nearer. 

“In this ecosystem, he’s an orca. All the other top players are sea lions and everyone else is penguins. They are all predators, but Dorrance is at the top of the chain.”

“And?” Damian demanded in the sort of tone that implied Tim had better explain why he should care or be prepared to suffer further crushing disdain. 

“And he has several thousand more tools and strategies than an orca. If someone heard you implying he is not fit, he would decimate your standing, which would in turn compromise your fathers standing. He would do it in such a way that you would be at fault and he would become an object of sympathy, which he would use to strengthen himself further.”

Rather than looking offended or unimpressed, Damian was now simply baffled. Shit, someone should really have sat this kid down for a long talk about the politics among the one percent. 

“Look, social politics are all about sabotage. Not physical sabotage, but emotional and intellectual. All of these people depend upon their image for success. Without that they fall from an orca or a sea lion to a penguin, and will be preyed on. Your father is still in a stronger social position to Dorrance, which means he is a direct rival. You can’t give him any opportunity to drag your father down. And you saying something, like he is unfit to be a guardian will give him the perfect opportunity.”

“But he is. It is an accurate assessment.”

Ugh. Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. Screw presenting a charming and serene front, he was tired and now had a headache. Let the world bask in the presence of the Real Tim, Raw and Uncensored.

“He is blind. It will be implied that you think he is unfit because he is blind. That is a sensitive topic that everyone will take offense at, or pretend to take offense at. You will be painted as an ignorant, ableist upstart. Who would be more appealing? Someone like that, or the upstanding and understanding victim?”

Damian was silent.

Hoping the boy was thinking it over and coming to a conclusion that would hopefully curb his tongue rather than unleash it, Tim put his face back together. When old lady Traeger glided by he smiled brightly at her and waved. 

“I understand. I lack the proper training for this battlefield.” The words sounded as though they were being forced past gritted teeth, but Tim didn't turn to look. 

“I’m glad you understand.”

“Hmmph.” A shuffle, the warmth of Damians arm brushing his. “Why would it endanger you?”

“Hmm?” Tim shared a commiserating look with Tera Kierny, sixteen year old daughter of a tech mogul parental team. His mother had desperately wanted him to befriend the girl, but their disparate years proved an insurmountable hurdle. Since he was all but orphaned, pity had paved the way for warmer relations between them and he was capitalizing on them. He had a few plans she would be pivotal in.

“Why would you be endangered by my actions?”

Tim should not have included himself in that category. 

How was he supposed to explain? How could he tell this kid, son of Batman or no, that he was living with a man that might kill him at any moment? Tim knew that he was all that stood between Dorrance and complete acquisition of Drake Ind. At any point he could decide that Tim had outlived his usefulness and he would follow after his mother. Worse, if that came to pass then his father would definitely not live any longer. 

“I’m his ward. What if he came under scrutiny because of what you said? He would ensure that there were ample opportunities to prove just how fit he was, all of which would involve me, and there would be no margin for error on my part. I can’t afford that sort of scrutiny from him or anyone else. Right now I’m good for his image just as I am and I’d rather keep it that way.”

“He would not harm you?” Damian muttered doubtfully. 

Oh, if you only knew, Tim thought hysterically, but only looked the kid in the eye and laughed. “Of course not.”

“Hmm.”

The dance had ended and Dorrance was being led by his partner to meet her circle of affluent friends. Another success for Dorrance and his campaign to charm the city right around his finger. 

“How do you bolster the mans image?”

Not the question Tim expected. But, “Thats a good question. To put it simply, it shows that he is a charitable, good man. Implies that he has a giving nature and is empathic. That I am a child softens his image enough to make him seem more approachable. It also provides common ground between him and others with children.”

Damian was listening intently. Tim could all but see every word being committed to memory and lined up to be perused and examined later. And he had never been in the position of teaching anyone else anything, never been considered an authority, never been useful like this… And surely it would be the right thing to do, to do anything he possibly could to make sure Damian survived in this toxic environment?

“Children,” he started slowly, watching the crowd, picking out the youngest faces in it, all sweet and polite and endearing. “are one of the best tools people in society have. We’re the real face of the family, the ones that show the values and sophistication of the family most clearly. Our behavior amplifies and exemplifies that of our parents, our successes are theirs, our intelligence a reflection of theirs.”

His parents has made sure he understood that from the time he could walk. He had a responsibility to the family and it was one he could never forget. 

“And our gaffs are also theirs,” Damian said thoughtfully.

“Yes. Which is why you need to be careful. Whatever you do is a reflection on your parents.”

Damian nodded. “Understandable. You have proven useful, Tim.”

Tim snorted. “Well, thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

This kid. 

Tim was grinning when he turned back to the room but he could feel the expression go cold when he caught sight of Dorrance, face concerned as he gestured questionably around the room. His circle of new friends were all turning in place, acting as his eyes and more than a few caught sight of Tim, waving him towards them eagerly. 

“It seems like I’m up.” Straightening his tie, Tim smiled at Damian as he started away. “It was nice to meet you.”

“We will meet again,” Damian said flatly.

Tim chuckled humorlessly, eyes tracking back to Dorrance and the people already telling him whose company Tim had been keeping. “Of course we will.”

He wouldn't have a choice now. 

His parents had never prevaricated. They asked him what he had heard and said and done. Eventually they asked him what he had intuited. And he would tell them succinctly enough that the report rarely lasted longer than the drive home. By the time they opened their door he was informed as to whether or not his performance was acceptable and given marching orders concerning their next appearance. 

Dorrance was not like that. 

The drive back to the house was full of warm conversation, carefully equalized give and take. Tim was neither praised nor reprimanded. Any time he fell into the habit of reporting, Dorrance would gently divert the topic onto a vaguely relevant anecdote. 

He commented on the food and asked Tims opinion. He commented on the music and asked Tims opinion. He commented on the venue and asked Tim whether the decorating had been as lovely as all the other guests implied and asked his personal opinion. 

The car slid to a purring halt at the front door of the manor and Dorrance asked Tim to keep him company for a late night snack and a smoke. 

The conversation rolled on. 

The library had no clock. The smothering scent of cigar smoke had seeped into every corner, stained every book. It was dark, only the flickering glow from the gas fireplace illuminating the room. Tim knew Dorrance knew there was no lighting and knew that if he mentioned it he would receive heartfelt apologies, token embarrassment and the assurance that Tim only had to ask, Dorrance would never want to him feel uncomfortable or be inconvenienced in his presence. 

Tim never asked anymore. 

Dorrance was a hulking shape in a white suit, blond hair turned into jagged black shadow or fierce fire-glow yellow. The embers at the tip of the cigar cast his face in a red haze that brightened and a dimmed with each rhythmic puff. 

Every word wound Tim tighter and tighter and tighter. Sweat and the sour taste of nausea at the back of his throat made him feel sick, dirty. It was alien, Dorrances approach, and Tim was always left off balance. 

And he was so tired. So tired. 

Dorrance felt it when that exhaustion finally trumped the tension and Tim slumped where he sat, in an overly soft armchair three sizes too large.

“I heard you made some new friends tonight,” he said jovially. His teeth glistened wetly, whiter than his suit and Tim waited. “I’m glad. I know how lonely it feels, losing your family and moving somewhere so different. I’m happy you have someone your own age to reach out to.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

“No need to thank me, Timothy! But tell me. Who was the young person?”

And Tim was tired. 

But he was not so tired he couldn't play this game.

And so he told Dorrance the truth. Damian was abrasive and intelligent. They had talked about their families, how there was sometimes a great deal of pressure. How Tim had offered some advice. 

“That was kind of you,” Dorrance said warmly, proudly. “Its good he has someone to teach him, help ease the transition. He was uprooted as well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tim said.

“I hope you two keep in contact. Mutually support one another. It would be good for you both.”

“I imagine we’ll be seeing more of each other,” Tim agreed. 

“Yes,” Dorrance laughed and stabbed out the cigar, grinding the embers to ash with a single twist against the crystal of the ashtray. “I imagine you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tws for emotional manipulation? Emotional abuse?? Being forced to live with your mothers murderer??? I don't actually know how to tag the Dorrance and Tim situation at this point... Though I will say there will be no abuse of, you know, THAT kind, so don't worry about that.   
> If anyone has any thoughts on how I should classify the situation I would appreciate hearing them. 
> 
> You know, Damian wasn't supposed to happen until Tim started meeting up with the rest of the Bats again? He just kept bulldozing through and so I gave up and just let him stay. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed! Comment if you feel like it


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs at end of chapter

Not even three weeks later they attended another event. An opera performed by a visiting troupe from Italy. Three nights only and exclusive because of it. 

Tim donned the now familiar red tie and scaled cufflinks, slicked back his hair under the disinterested eye of the newest in a long stream of personal assistants. 

The excursion was fairly last minute; Dorrance had had a prior engagement with a conglomerate head from Hong Kong and they had ostensibly canceled. Tim was fairly sure that Dorrance had been the one to call for a rescheduling and he knew why. 

The soprano of the troupe was rumored to be Bruce Waynes most recent conquest and had extended a personal invitation for the american grand premier. And, as everyone knew, where Bruce Wayne went, so too did Damian. 

The opera house had been one of the few gems of Gotham since its construction in 1821. Over the years sections had been brought over piecemeal from historic buildings over seas. Several other opera houses, two churches, several castles and palaces, and an entire pub. 

All the different parts and pieces and culturally exclusive architecture had necessitated a host of different engineers and architects over the years. So many that, naturally, a great many of the blueprints were inaccurate or missing completely. 

Stepping into the foyer tiled with the marble floor of a Prussia ballroom, Tim looked around with dull interest as several attendants hurried gracefully over to assist Dorrance. Most of Gothams upper echelon were in attendance, in finery that would likely never see another use and draped in jewelry that was in most cases went back generations. 

Tim caught a glimpse of Selina Kylie ascending the stairs, dressed in a dress so dark red it bordered on black, her black hair swept high. Another woman with blond hair walked with her, the two vanishing before Tim could get more than a glimpse. 

Tim looked around the room again, at all the jewels and precious metal, and wished her happy hunting. 

He wondered what had become of his mothers collection of pearls. Tucked away safe in one of Dorrances vaults, no doubt. Another insult. 

“Timothy!” Dorrance called as an attendant carried away his coat. He smiled broadly, cane tucked under one arm as he extended the other. “Mind helping me up the stairs?”

Tim smiled warmly back. “Of course, sir.”

Around them people started whispering, some laughing, a few women cooing. The sort of positive attention Tim was there to engender. 

The first touch of Dorrance’s too hot hand made his skin crawl, rippling away from the light pressure like it was attempting to crawl away entirely. The revulsion was a deep seated and all encompassing thing and Tim fought to contain it every step of the way from the foyer to Dorrance’s private box. 

He could feel the vibration of every solid, heavy step. Could feel the expansion and contraction of his ribs with every breath and could imagine how it would feel to slip a knife right between them.

By the time the red velvet curtain parted around them and Dorrance released him to feel for the back of a seat, Tim felt cold. His thoughts were quiet and slow, floating somewhere to the left of him as they settled in. 

The lights dimmed, wall sconces golden and low. The murmur of the audience fell into quiet, only the ruffling of pages and the discordant, low sounds of the orchestra performing last minute adjustments. On the other side of the room was the Wayne’s box. Tim could just make out three figures, shadowed and indistinct. 

Then the curtains parted and the first act started. 

Tim had an appreciation for the opera. He was trained to have an appreciation for all fine things, really. And, even if he could not speak italian fluently, he knew just enough to follow the story.

But it definitely wasn't he preferred pastime and slowly but steadily a headache began creeping up his neck and settling into the base of his skull. 

The intermission came. The crowd began talking even before the curtain finished closing and the lights came back up. Over the railing Tim could see the crowd in the pit seating politely pushing towards the aisles in a slow moving wave. 

The first visitor to Dorrance’s box was a Hilda Davenport, old money and old blood of Gotham. Though her business interests were strictly on the shareholder and investor variety she undeniably had the ears and in some cases the balls of many businesses. 

“Edmund!” She called happy, taking the mans outstretched hands and kissing his cheeks, straining on her toes to reach. Dorrance belated leaned downwards to make it easier for her with an embarrassed laugh. 

It made Tim ill to watch; it was just another ploy, just another way to make someone else give when they did not need to. 

“Hilda, my dear, how are you?”

“Abominably bored,” she replied flatly, tucking one heavily be ringed hand into his elbow and peering down a pert nose at Tim. “And this is your ward, then?”

“Indeed he is. Timothy, this is my dear friend Hilda Davenport. Hilda, Timothy Drake.”

Tim shook out his cuffs before offering a hand, bending to brush a kiss over the air above her opera glove. “Pleasure to see you again, Mrs Davenport. I was sorry to hear about you husband; my deepest sympathies.”

“And mine to you.” When Tim met her eyes there was a rare hint of sincerity there, a warmth. “I was deeply perturbed to hear of your parents. Your mother especially was a fine woman, some of the best company I have kept over the years. She always livened whatever party she graced.”

Tim’s smile dropped and so did his voice. “Thank you, Mrs Davenport.”

“Well,” she said briskly, and the sympathy and hint of warmth were swept away. “At least you have Edmund to care for you.”

“Yes. I am very lucky.” The words, for all they came out warm and appreciative, felt like razors on his throat. 

“Oh, come now,” Dorrance said and sheepishly patted the back of Hilda’s hand. “Its nothing less than what anyone would do.”

“Don’t be a fool, Edmund. In any event, I have something to discuss with you.” She pinned Tim with a significant look and he wasted no time walking to the curtain. 

“I’ll be going to get some refreshments, if thats alright sir?”

“Of course, certainly.”

Tim smiled, head cocked. “Would you like me to bring anything back?”

“Seltzer,” Hilda said. “Heavy on the lemon. No ice.”

“Something with white rum, perhaps?” Dorrance said musingly. “And feel free to take your time, Timothy.”

“Thank you, I will.”

The classic curtain of the box was for show only; behind it was a sturdy, elegant faux antique door with a simple latch. Tim opened it on soundless, well oiled hinges and stepped out between the two bodyguards bracketing the doors. 

One of them looked at Tim briefly but said nothing before going back to staring blankly at the opposite wall, crossed arms pulling his black tuxedo jacket taut and outlining the gun in its underarm holster. Tim didn’t looked at them at all as he walked down the hall, passing a few well groomed opera attendees. 

From further down the hall, another bodyguard seamlessly joined the light crowd and followed. Another of Tims ever present, ever changing shadows. 

As he walked Tim took in the new wainscot paneling. It hadn’t been there three years ago, when he had last attended with his parents. He wondered what had happened to force the change, especially considering the eighteenth century reproduction wallpaper. 

Down the wide stairs and past far more people, through the foyer and to the left. A roped off billiards room with a discreet hall beside it that led to the washrooms. Tim knew the route very well and didn’t need to expend any effort in finding his way and so devoted most of it to considering Mrs Davenport. 

Hilda was as a formidable ally as she was an enemy. The ruling matriarch of east coast high society and the dowager queen of Gotham elite. As far as most people were aware, she did not dirty her hands with the cities underbelly, preferring to traverse the far more delicate and treacherous world of business and old money. 

She had been something of a patron to Bruce Wayne and his father before him. Rumor had it that she held a particular fondness for Martha Wayne, and had therefore eased her introduction into Gotham society when she married into the Wayne family. The Waynes had always had her as a staunch supporter and their interests frequently aligned. 

So it was concerning that she was suddenly so interested in Dorrance. The man had recently been making moves that could, in a certain light, be taken as against the Waynes. By all rights Hilda should be subtly snubbing the man and his audacity. 

Instead they were in a private meeting that was nonetheless in full if distant view of the public. 

Tim clenched his teeth.

Dorrance was a man whose few weaknesses were so heavily guarded it was nearly impossible to breach them. Tim was the leading authority on that fact, considering how thoroughly he’d been testing those defenses the last few months. Personal, business, it hardly mattered. The man was slowly making himself untouchable and now he was gathering allies to make him more so. 

If, Tim thought as he turned into the bar, Hilda Davenport was breaking ties with Bruce Wayne than Tim would have to accelerated his own plans. Somehow. 

In the bar the lights were sparkling through the crystal of their sconces and bathing the room in shards of light like diamonds. The people bustling inside were ethereally in the glow, jewelry shimmering, hair gleaming. Laughter and conversation filled the room like birdsong and bells chimes. 

It was beautiful in every way. It was the sort of dreamlike scenario that most people dreamed of being a part of.

All Tim could see were carrion birds and stalking wolves. 

Slipping into the crowd of familiar strangers, Tim smiled at those who made eye contact and pretended not to notice the whispers that rose in his wake. Even now he was cause for comment, it seemed. The practically orphaned ward of the great Sir Dorrance, who so magnanimously supported the child of his late business partners whose good names were still under a cloud of suspicion. 

After all, they reasoned behind glasses or cupped hands or wide smiles, people were did not die under such circumstances or methods without a reason. What must they have been into? What deals must they have struck, to have recovered so well and so quickly from near total destruction? Who must they have struck a deal with?

Tim wanted to scream at them all.

Instead, he made his way to the bar. 

The room had been taken, piece by piece, from England in the eighties. From its walnut bar-top to its silver backed mirrors, it was a work of architectural, historical art from a dead century. 

It had once been the heart of an exclusive gentlemens club. Dukes and ministers and princes had sat on the gilded barstools and walked the wide plank floor. Had gambled (tastefully) on the round mahogany tables. The chandelier was a gift from a Raja and the carvings the work of a master. 

The first time Tim had seen it he’d thought it was too dark, with all its wood paneling and golden lighting. He’d stood closer than was generally allowed to his fathers legs and watched the people around him, giving little thought to the architecture. 

Since then he had learned the value of knowing the history of a place. Especially the history of somewhere like this, that had been transported from somewhere else entirely and fitted into a place it had never been meant to inhabited. 

The black vested bartenders were busily serving the clientele but one wouldn’t think so to look at them. They moved smooth and quick, all charming smiles and elegant turn of the wrists as they poured and garnished. 

Tim went to the far end of the bar and settled onto a stool as he waited for service. 

It came quickly enough. A young man with a broad smile and thin hands, discreet eyeliner drawing attention to heterochromatic eyes. Probably an aspiring actor or model, passing time and scraping by as he waited for a brig break. Possibly, but unlikely, working to try and mitigate student debt as he attended college, like Jeremy had. 

“A little young to be here, aren’t you, kiddo?” He said with a laugh, exchanging a quick glance with the slightly older bartender further up, a nod that had her sighing slightly but smoothly taking up his post. 

Tim smiled back and laughed brightly. “Don’t worry, I am only a humble errand boy.” Tapping his heels on the barstool leg, a deliberately childish gesture that had the slight tension in the mans shoulders easing. “My guardian is with Mrs Davenport, so I said I would get their drinks during intermission.”

As expected, the two names hit the mark. No a catering company or established restaurateur worth their organic sea salt failed to brief their staff on the most prominent names they would run into. Especially for event such as this. 

The genuine friendliness vanished in place of perfect professionalism, though the bartenders smile didn’t wane in the slightest. 

“Got it. What do you need for tonight, sir?”

“Classic daiquiri and seltzer with lemon, no ice.” 

The man nodded and pulled out the required glasses. “Any preference as to the rum, sir?”

Tim gave it a moments thought. Dorrance generally went with Bacardi, but his mother had a different preference. Tim smiled wider. 

“Havana Club, if you would.” Another in a long line of petty and generally unnoticed acts of minor vengeance.

“Of course, sir. One moment.”

As Tim watched the drinks be prepared, he eyed the daiquiri. 

Poison had was one of the many methods Tim had considered. Subtle, simple. His mother would have approved.

But over the past months of observation Tim had been forced to concede the method would be unlikely to succeed. Dorrance had unnaturally sharp senses, and he seemed able to smell when was evenly slightly off from his preferences. More than one chef had been fired and blacklisted for the sin of under or overseasoning, of using a slightly different brand of vinegar or wine. Whether it was through taste or scent, he seemed more than capable of detecting whatever crude poison of toxin Tim had access to. 

Perhaps someday he would be able to get his hands on a more exotic option. 

“I’ll call someone to carry these back for you,” the bartender said, arranging the glasses on a small tray. “Wouldn’t want someone knocking into you on the way back.”

“Thats a good idea, thank you.” Tim slid a small stack of bills across the counter, several larger and a great many smaller ones. The bartender startled briefly, flicking a surprised glance between the practically absurd tip and Tim before pocketing it without comment. 

While the bartender went in search of an attendant, Tim leaned against the bar and scrolled through newsfeeds on his phone, the weight of Dorrance’s sniffer dog heavy on his back. 

“Timothy Drake.”

Tim nearly dropped the phone in tandem with the drop of his heart. 

Damian Wayne stood less than three feet behind him, a scowl more reminiscent of a pout carving his face. The golden bar lights made his skin richer, shot streaks of bronze through his slicked back hair. He wore a tradition tux just like Tim and it was strangely mundane compared to the all dramatic all black ensemble of their previous meeting.

“Your name is Timothy Drake,” Damian said and stared like an unblinking lizard. Tim tucked his phone back in his pocket and smiled. 

“Yeah, that’s me. Nice to see you again.”

“You should have introduced yourself properly before,” Damian declared and climbed onto the barstool next to Tim. He stared judgmentally at the tray still sitting on the bartop but made no comment. 

Tim smiled wider. Apparently the kid was as abrasive as ever. “Sorry about that. It was remiss of me.”

“It was,” Damian agreed solemnly. He was casing the room through the reflection of the antique mirrors and when his eyes settled on Tims watchdog he grimaced. “Disgraceful.”

Tim snorted. “His specialty is to be muscle. Not to be subtle.”

“Specialization is acceptable only when one is fully competent in said specialization,” Damian said witheringly. Tim snorted. 

“Are you here with your father?”

Damian nodded, posture straight and perfect even while his legs dangled comically above the upper rung of the stool. “Yes. I saw Sir Dorrance and came in search of you.”

That was surprising. Tim risked a brief glance in the mirror at the guard dog, but the man was out of hearing range and more interested in observing the various drinks being prepared than in Tims conversation. An oversight that might cost him more than simply his job when Dorrance inevitably learned just who had been keeping Tim company. 

Across the room a woman burst into loud, unabashed laughter, high and rough and genuine. A tiny lull in the hum of conversations followed, everyone startled by it and listening. 

“Its nice to see you again,” Tim said once the laughter tapered off. And it was actually true, even if it was what Dorrance wanted.

The kid puffed up like a little bird, pleased and trying badly not to show it. His nose raised another haughty centimeter. “Hmph. Well you should be.”

The bartender returned, a younger and nervously flushed attendant in an ill-fitting vest who looked like she had been shanghaied away from the kitchen staff in tow. 

“Gemma will carry your tray for you, sir,” the bartender said brightly, eyes already sliding towards his progressively more frazzled fellows. He clapped a hand on the girls shoulder and gave her a subtle but meaningful shove forward. 

Tim nodded. “Thank you for the consideration.”

“Does he have you playing errand boy?” Damian sneered. For moment Tim thought he was speaking to Gemma, but found the him still watching Tim from the corner of his eye, frown ever more prominent. 

“Hardly. I offered.”

“Hmph. I shall walk back with you.”

Gemma circled out from the bar, tray held white knuckled tight. Tim smiled at her to buy time as he scrounged for way to dissuade Damian. 

The thought of Dorrance meeting Damian or, far worse, Damian meeting Dorrance, made a pit of cold cave out the bottom of his stomach. 

His mothers hair, caught between blades of grass, twisted through the back of his mind.

“I hardly need an escort,” Tim laughed and fell into step behind Damian, who was forcing a path through the center of the room. Patrons startled, grimaced and stared sullenly at the boys straight back. “But the Waynes box is on the way to Sir Dorrances. The intermission is almost over, so we’ll split off there, alright?”

“That is acceptable.”

And so they retraced Tims steps, Damian in the lead, followed by Tim, followed by Gemma with Dorrance’s guard stalking distantly in the back. 

The billiard rooms lights were off, the thick soft blue ropes that blocked it off slightly off center. Likely a trysting couple had slipped in, taking advantage of the forbidden space. 

Attendees filled the foyer and the grand stairway, slowly making their way back to their seats or boxes. Tim watched with a poorly suppressed grin as Damian bowled his way through the meandering throng with single minded and unwavering purpose, moving at easily three times the speed of any of the longer legged adults. 

They were in the center the marble foyer when the first burst of gunfire rang. 

Tim spun in place, snagging the back of Damian’s jacket with one hand and dragging him to the floor while lashing out with foot, hooking Gemma’s ankle to topple her along with them. 

Attendees screamed and panicked around them, rushing for the exits. Another burst from a different corner of the foyer had a good portion fleeing back they way they came. 

Tim looked around, taking in what little he could see through churning legs and flaring skirts. As expected, all exits were blocked off by gunmen. The hall towards the bar and the washrooms were likewise guarded and even as he watched, Tim could see the stragglers and staff members being herded into the foyer. 

“Everyone on their knees!” A mans voice rose above the panic. Distorted by a megaphone, it was more than audible nonetheless. 

“Unhand me, Drake, lest I take it off at the wrist!” Damian hissed, twisting in place. Tim spared a second to look at him and was instantly glad he had. 

He lashed out and snagged the boys arm, stopping the hand he was using to pull an improbably oversized knife from the inside of his jacket. Damian snarled at him and the strength evidence by the much slower but still obvious progress of the knife was startling. 

“I will not tell you again, Drake,” he said and this time Tim believed him. 

“I have no doubt that you are skilled enough to use that,” Tim whispered urgently. Gemma was sobbing harshly beside them, arms wrapping around the now empty tray as she hid her face behind it. “But even if you can use it well enough to keep yourself in one piece, this is a target rich environment. Any of these people could die instantly if you attack now. Are you willing to risk that?”

Tim watched as Damian looked around the room and felt cold. There was nothing reflecting in his eyes but cold assessment. His gaze skated over Gemma as though she were nothing more than an un-interesting bit scenery, glanced over the slowly kneeling people around them without a trace of empathy. 

Another burst rang out, taking out of the chandlers and several of the lights, dimming the room amid a cacophony of shattering glass and renewed screaming, as the megaphone speaker reiterated his demand even louder. This time the attendees hurried to obey. 

Damian did not flinch. 

“It would reflect poorly on your father,” Tim snapped and finally the knife paused in its withdrawal. Damian narrowed his eyes and Tim hurried to convinced him. The very last thing he could do was allow Damian to be shot in front of him. He couldn’t— it couldn’t happen. No matter what he had to do or say to ensure it.

“Your father would never recover from the shame of it, if you cause people to die.”

Damian dropped his gaze. Slowly, the knife slid soundlessly back from where it came. “Understood.”

Thank God, Tim thought. 

When Damian remained crouched and stationary on the floor, Tim slowly untangled his fingers from the back of his jacket and turned to Gemma. 

“Hey, Miss? Gemma?”

She peeked around the edge of the tray, eyes glassy and distant and barely seeing him. He slid closer, pressing the length of his arm against hers, wishing he put out heat like Steph. Just being close to her was like a hug. “Are you okay?”

The question seemed to draw her back to reality somewhat and she peered at him, a slow frown scrunching her face. “Are- are y-you?”

“I’m fine. You will be too.”

“Not if she persists in weeping,” Damian cut in acidly. 

Tim kicked him and kept his attention on Gemma. She looked even younger than he’d thought, with her mascara running and her face pale beneath concealer. Sixteen, seventeen at most. This was probably her first serious job. 

He was willing to bet she wasn’t going to stay in the food service industry after this. 

“Just stay low, okay? I don’t think they’ll bother with you.”

She nodded, eyes already regaining that distant sheen. Tim kept close. 

“Attention everyone!” Megephone shouted. Tim went back to observing. Across the foyer two masked men were chaining the doors shut. “If you all follow orders and don’t cause any trouble, this’ll all be over quickly, got it? We’re going to be sending around some collection bags; all money, jewelry and whatever else we fucking want goes in that bag without a problem, or we’ll putting a bullet in your head quicker than you can say ‘No’.”

“To the point, at least,” Damian grumbled. When Tim looked at him there was a significantly smaller and yet somehow sharper looking knife in his hand. Coincidentally the on furthest from Tim. Damian met his disappointed scowl with a smugly raised eyebrow. 

Distant gunfire drifted downstairs and the crowd milled. Someone was sobbing hysterically. 

Thirteen men in the foyer. Likely twice as many upstairs and throughout the rest of the building. All exits were doubtlessly locked and guarded by this point. Well coordinated, with only one visible figurehead and no gratuitous violence. 

At least, not yet. 

There was no possibility that the police had not already been contacted and were en route. Within minutes the building would be surrounded. The criminals unconcern about that fact was troubling; either they believed they had a fool proof escape plan, or were planning to hold the lot of them hostage and barter their way to freedom. Or they were planning to fight their way out with no reservations regarding casualties on any side. 

So far the only visible injuries were a few cuts from falling glass and crystal, bruises and it what seemed to be a twisted ankle from the mad dashing for an exit. A few of the stragglers that had been led in late had bruises on their faces and were even more skittish of the gunmen than the rest of them. 

Not afraid to use violence then. Hardly surprising. 

Tim eyed Damian. 

The real issue here was Batman. As long as Bruce Wayne was not being held in full view of civilians and therefore pinned in place, Tim had no doubt that Batman would be making an appearance. If that were the case, the likelihood of everyones survival increased significantly. The only cause for alarm on that account was Damian and whether Batman would make the boy his priority. 

In any case, whether Batman appeared or not, Tim needed a plan. 

The bartender was approaching with a large sack and a gunman prodding his shoulder. There was a streak of blood on the left sleeve of his white shirt and a bruise blooming around one eye. Every few steps he would pause by a huddle of people and wait for them to relinquish their valuables. So far, no one had refused. 

Tim knew better than to believe that would hold true for long. 

Especially considering the knife wielding, overly prideful person beside him. 

When the gunman and his unwilling accomplice stopped in front of Tim he had already unclasped his watch and withdrawn his wallet. And also the secondary wallet he habitually carried, smaller and yet more densely packed with cash. Most of the cash had been tucked into the side of his shoe during the wait, but it still hurt to see what remained go to such an unworthy cause.

Letting his eyes widen and his mouth tremble weakly, he made a show of dropping them into the sack, taking care to let the light catch on the diamond face of the watch as it tumbled off his fingers. 

“We already got them ready, please don’t hurt us,” he said softly, eyes turned down. He felt Damian sitting as stiff as an offended cat beside him and angled himself to be more in view. 

The man laughed. “Throw in those cufflinks and I’ll consider it, kid.”

Fumbling (but only a little and only enough to imply fear rather than an attempt to buy time), he popped them free and let them fall, watching them vanish with satisfaction. He hoped Dorrance never managed to reclaim them.

The man laughed again. “Good boy.”

Teeth grit against the sneer that instantly attempted to crawl across his face, Tim ducked his head and watched the mans shoes scuff by, bypassing Gemma completely. 

“Pathetic,” Damian grumbled. 

Tim scowled. “Remember I just saved you the trouble of replacing a wallet, kid.”

“I will not be condescended to by one who capitulates to the demands of a lesser being.”

“Shut up,” Tim grumbled, looking worriedly at the still too close for comfort gunman. The last thing he needed was Damian drawing attention. 

The discordant wailing of multiple sirens was a distant backdrop to the crying and murmuring of the room, the heavy tread of the criminals footsteps. Through the heavy plate glass doors Tim could just make out the neon-esque glow of flashing lights and caution signs. Another wild night for the emergency personnel of Gotham. 

More gunfire came from above and Tim cautiously maneuvered onto his heels, watching the staircase from the corner of his eye. The other gunmen were also directing quick, nervous glances towards it. 

Not everything was going according to plan, then. 

“I will not!” 

Tim didn’t close his eyes at the shout of a man, but he dearly wanted to. 

“You will or you’ll be a spatter of brain matter over the floor!”

“Do you even know who I am?!” Tim mouthed along to the words, much to interest of Damian who was looking between him and the drama occurring further down the line. 

“No,” the gunman replied succinctly. “Fork it over.”

A sputtering pause as the man built up steam. Tim finally looked towards them. 

Not a face he knew and therefore not nearly so important as the man believed himself to be. They never were, these sorts. At least he was dressed tastefully. 

“These are heirlooms!” The man said, covering the chain of a pocket watch and turning his whole torso to the side as though to protect it with his body. “It had been in my family for twelve generations!”

“Really?” Interest colored the gunmans voice. The man of great self importance took the tone as encouragement rather than the avarice it was. 

“Indeed. And so I shall not cede it over to you!”

“Alright then,” the gunman said and pulled the trigger. 

As the man writhed screaming on the floor, hands gripping his steadily bleeding calf, the gunman gestured to the bag holder while the rest of the hostages crawled desperately away. “Get the watch.”

Shakily, the bartender complied. 

Tim waited until the pair were several yards away from the moaning victim before walking on his knees towards him. As he passed Gemma, even more blank eyed and now utterly silent, he slipped what cash he had held back into her pocket. Hopefully it would at least pay for therapy. 

A hand latched onto his ankle.

“Where are you going?”

Tim kicked lightly but the hand didn’t budge. He followed the arm back up to Damian who, in his fear hand, was still cradling the knife in his palm, blade tucked up his sleeve. 

“I’m going to apply first aid before he bleeds to death,” Tim said wearily. 

Damian scoffed. “The fool is no concern of yours.”

Tim stared at him. This time when he kicked there was a great deal more force behind it. 

“Drake!” Damian snarled, shaking out a numb wrist and crawling after him as Tim scrambled down the line. 

Soon enough Tim reached his objective. The pool of blood had stopped expanding, the edges smeared from the mans agonized kicking, though he was thankfully still. He lay on his side, curled into himself and whimpering with every exhale, shaking harder than Gemma ever had. 

“Hey, sir? Sir? It's alright, you’ll be alright.” Stripping off his jacket Tim draped it over the mans shoulder. It was minuscule in comparison but it was symbolism as more than the use of it. Sometimes a placebo was worth more than any genuine drug. “It’ll be alright. Just breath, nice and even. Alright?”

Pain and shock made the man far more cooperative than he had been and Tim was guiltily grateful for it. With Damian all but breathing down his neck he was full up on dealing with the dramatically inclined. 

“Can I borrow that knife?” Tim asked. 

Damian scoffed. “No.” A pause. “Why?”

“I need to cut his pant leg so I can see the wound,” Tim explained with what he considered commendable patience. 

Damian sighed heavily, leaned around him and with a flick of the knife that looked like it should have opened muscle down to the bone and the man startling, sliced the pant leg from knee to ankle. “There.”

Tim blinked at him. “Thanks?”

Damian grunted and settling back into a crouch, attention once again focused on scowling at the room.   
The gunmen were almost finished harvesting their crop of finery. There were now only ten in the room, three of them shuttling the bags of loot down the hall leading to the bar. Shoulders prickling with the knowledge he was going to be forced to split his attention, Tim bent down to attend to the man. 

“I’m going to bandage this up, alright?” Stripping off his cummerbund and rolling up his sleeves, Tim leaned over to reach his jacket and plucked out the pocket square. On the way back down he took the mans luridly purple one for good measure. 

Folding the two into pads, he set one against the small entry wound at the front of the mans calf and the other at the much larger exit. The man wailed and Tim shushed his absently, too occupied with trapping his kicking foot with a knee to his ankle, pinning it in place. 

Quickly wrapping the cummerbund around the two pocket squares he pulled it tight, easily dodging the mans flailing attempts to knock him away as he tied the ribbons. 

It was an interesting look and not nearly as effective as Tim would have preferred. But baring more bad decisions on the mans part, he was confident it would serve its purpose until the emergency personal could attend to it. 

“There, that should work for now,” Tim said warmly and patted the mans hunched shoulder. Tim jacket had fallen off during all the thrashing and he pulled it back into place before looking around. He white his hands on his shirt as he took in his audience.

The people who had been watching him hurriedly looked away and though he would have preferred scowling he fixed a smile on his face. 

“Could someone sit with him until we’re rescued? Just to make sure he doesn’t move too much?”

It took a few seconds of expectant, smiling waiting but eventually an older gentleman shuffled closer, looking at the smeared puddle with distaste. He thumped a white gloved hand against the mans back and said, tonelessly, “There there, its alright.”

The look he shot Tim clearly said ‘You better appreciate this’.

Tim merely smiled back and hastily crawled away. 

The sodden knees of his pants left tacky red smears as he went. The marble was frigid under his hands. 

Damian shadowed him on his left, though he was moving in strange sideways, crouched walk. Likely he thought it was more dignified than maneuvering around on hands and knees, but Tim just thought it looked comically crab-like. But as long as Damian remained hidden by the seated or kneeling crowd Time wasn’t going to comment.

“Where are you going now?” Damian demanded. 

“I want a better view of the hall.”

Damian opened his mouth, probably to demand why or make a disparaging remark, but, with an even louder and longer burst than before, the gunfire upstairs renewed and the entire building went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for blood and violence, a hostage situation and a depiction of a character experiencing an anxiety attack followed by disassociation. Also, a gunshot wound with slapdash and probably inaccurate first aid because I was a bad student when I learned and I remember NOTHING!
> 
> I could almost cry! The whole chapter is one long scene! It had a cliffhanger! Why??? Damian, you aren't even supposed to be here!
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the longwinded madness. Comment if inclined


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs at bottom of chapter

Screams rose, even more hysterical than all the preceding ones. Tim could hear scrambling, frantic movement, people calling out each others names in with steadily increasing terror. 

Sudden darkness in an already dangerous situation had a tendency to bring out the animal terror in everyone, Tim mused as someone knocked hard against him. 

Flashlight beams skimmed over the heads of the crowd and the colorful glow through the front doors was ten times brighter. 

Not enough to make up for the lack of light, though. 

Tim slapped a hand over Damians shoulder, hissed a “Stay here.” and sprinted for the hall. 

The crowd was chaotic, some still on their knees, others standing, a few attempting to flee. Thankfully they were all more than loud enough to let Tim avoid them without sight. 

A flashlight beam swept over the open floor between the foyer center and the hall and Tim fell into a beneath it, pushing hard against the floor with to gain momentum and listening intently for any hint he’d been spotted. 

The beam did not come back and the shouting remained the same demands for calm and to remain seated.

He rolled into the hall just as the lights buzzed back to life. 

Back pressed tight to the wall, he peered around the corner and was grimly satisfied that his gamble had paid off; when the lights went down, the criminals who had been shuttling down the hall with the goods had dropped them and returned to the foyer as backup. For now, the hall was clear. 

“You,” Damian hissed directly into his ear, “are an aggravation.”

“You didn’t have to follow.” Tim shrugged and decided not the question why the boy had followed him at all. If he expected him to take advantage of the loss of power to go anywhere, it would have been up the stairs to his father, not following a mere acquaintance. 

“With what little I have observed, I would be remiss in allowing you to roam with an escort.”

Surprised, Tim looked over his shoulder. Damian was not looking back but instead peering into the foyer, eyes shifting constant and alert from threat to threat. 

“You’re worried about me?”

Damian finally looked at him, face stiff with obvious affront. Like a murderous bird whose feathers had been ruffled backwards. 

“I am not.”

A warmth, like spilled tea, seeped through Tims chest and he started edging down the hallway with his head ducked to hide a grin. It was stupid to be smiling, much less to be letting any of his attention stray from the current situation. But it was hard. It was hard not to look at Damian or like knowing that the shadow at the edge of his eye was not a threat. 

Still. He had an objective here. 

Several bags lay discarded on the floor and he hooked one as he hurried by, dragging it into the corridor of the washrooms. It was surprisingly heavy for its size and the contents and hissed and rattled with the movement. Tim looks behind them and just managed to drag it, himself and Damian into the corridor just as a gunman backed into the hall. 

“What are you doing?” Damian hissed as Tim drew open the sack. Listening intently for any incoming footsteps and to the rise and fall of voices in the foyer, Tim pulled a phone from his pocket, set the ringer to silent and overrode the vibrate, shoving it tot he bottom of the sack.

“GPS. As long as I give them the account information, they’ll be able to pinpoint its location.”

Damian frowned at the sack. The blade of his knife was tapping lightly against his leg as he stood agains the wall. “Hmm.” 

Tim laughed under his breath as he retied the sack. “I’m glad you approve, thank you Damian.”

“Aggravating,” Damian grunted. 

Heavy footsteps sounded and Tim hurriedly shoved the bag to the opening of the corridor before running lightly to the alcove in front of the ladies room. 

“What the hell is going on?” Someone muttered. Tim listened to the rustle crunch of bags being gathered and knocking together. 

“Who cares? Its not gone completely to shit yet, so just get your ass moving so we can get out before it does.”

“But upstairs, Marty said—“

“Who. Gives. A Fuck? Pick it and get moving!”

The footsteps continued and then abruptly ended. Turning into the carpeted billiards room. 

Not a tryst, it seemed. He cursed his complacency. 

Distantly Tim could hear a voice shouting through another bullhorn from the street outside. It was too muffled to hear much, but he didn’t need to. For a hostage situation of this caliber it was doubtless the commissioner himself, saying a variation of the same thing he always said. Where the hostages safe? What were the demands? Give yourself up and no one would be hurt.

It had never worked before. Tim knew better than to think it would now. 

More gunfire, both from upstairs in the foyer. 

“Not good,” Tim mumbled. 

If he went back to the foyer he would most likely be ushered back into the herd, overlooked because of age and appearance and the tear he could summon on command. Not as likely, but still a possibility, was that he would hurt or shot as an example or simply out of reflex from the all consuming adrenaline high most of them were functioning under. Still, if he were in the foyer he could monitor the situation from up close and be on hand to help in the event of any further casualties. 

If he stayed out of sight he could try to observe and figure out their plan, possibly head it off. They had a plan of escape that involved more than negotiation or forcing their way through in a hail of gunfire, he was sure of it. So far they were far too organized to have no exit plan. The phone was all well and good, but if they went below ground or simply found it then it would be useless. 

The tired, empty part of him wondered why he should bother doing anything. He could easily find a place to weather the storm. There was no reason to impede the thieves or help anyone. 

But it was ingrained by now. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing, more out of habit than anything else. 

The ladies room was all elegant opulence. Silver backed mirrors in gilt frames, soft white carpet and rich indigo wall paper, the stalls large and private, with wooden doors and no gaps. A tray lay on the floor in the entrance, once neatly folded towels scattered over the floor. The attendant had not had the opportunity to hide, then. By the lack of blood she was likely still alive. 

A the end of the long room was an alcove curtained off with ceiling to floor velvet drapes. Inside were two cushioned stools, a pedestal with discreet hooks above it and three size feet tall mirrors. And in the ceiling a large vent. 

It was filigree and burnished like aged bronze, but a vent was a vent, and in such a building as this fairly large. More than large enough for Tim. 

Shadowing him, Damian looked thoughtfully at the array of tiny perfume bottles on the pedestal. As he stepped in he used the tip of his knife (which had at some point been traded out for the much larger one, leather wrapped grip well worn and resting comfortably in hand) prodded a gold tassel on the sash holding curtains back and grunted. 

Tim chose not to comment. He had enough ongoing battles at the moment. 

The commotion was kicking up outside and Tim wasted no more time. Planting one foot between the perfumes and lotion bottles, he boosted up, balancing as he grabbed the nearest curtain. Twisting it into a tangle, he gripped tight and planted his other foot into it, stepping off the pedestal to plant that foot against the wall. 

Arial silk it was not, but it would do for the moment. 

From the bottom of an interior pocket he unearthed a paperclip and leaned out, hand and one foot in the curtain, the other planted higher up the wall, and fitted the rounded bottom of the paperclip into the cap of the first screw. 

Perfect fit. 

In short order the two screws nearest him were dropped to the floor and Tim was bending the grate open. He looked down to find Damian gazing back up at him and Tim waved. 

“Want to hang out in here or come with?”

“Do not ask pointless questions,” Damian demanded and tucked away the knife. 

“Alright then. I don’t know how narrow it is, but I probably won’t be able to turn around and help you up.”

“I am not so incompetent as to need your assistance,” was the frosty response. 

Hooking his hand over the edge of vent, Tim released his hold on the curtain and swung forward, pulled up and slid in, suspenders catching briefly on metal. 

Dark, narrow and dirtier than Tim would usually expect from such a building. It was also shockingly cold.

Tim blinked against the blackness, momentarily frozen by a sinking sense of deja vu. It was dirtier, narrower, older, but the feel of cold metal pressing in from all sides was the same. 

The last time he had been in a vent he had created the circumstances that led to his mothers death.

Something knocked hard against the bottom of his foot. 

“Do not dawdle, Drake!”

Either Damian had scaled the curtain far more quickly than anticipated, or Tim had been frozen longer than he thought. 

He didn’t respond, knowing how sounds carried through vents, but he wriggled further in. As soon as he cleared the edge of the vent he could feel the shuddered of added weight and then Damians hands slapping the bottom of his shoes. 

“Faster, Drake!”

“Shh,” Tim hissed back, smothering the urge to giggle. It was probably from adrenaline anyway. 

At least Damian wasn’t stabbing him. 

The vent sloped slightly upward and Tim kept careful track of the distance as they pulled themselves along by the elbows. Damian was just as careful and quiet as Tim, only the faint scrap of cloth over metal and the unavoidable faint groans as the metal beneath them warped ever so slightly under unaccustomed weight. 

They passed the vent on the mens washroom, empty and silent and then Tim reached the vent of the billiard room. 

The room had a taller ceiling than the washrooms and so the grate was beside him rather than beneath. Looking out, Tim frowned. 

One of the antique tables was shoved away, the carpeting of the floor beneath it sliced and striped away revealing a lopsided square of wooden floor and a gaping rectangular opening and plank stairs leading sharply downwards. Three masked men were hurrying up and down, ferrying sacks of stolen goods or boxes of liquor from the bar.

There was a tap on his ankle, less demanding than any of previous jabs of slaps and Tim nudged gently back.

The men were silent but organized. Guns holstered or slung from the slings and no hostages. A relief. 

Tim continued crawling forward. From the inside, the vent of the bar was even easier to remove than that of the washroom and Tim dropped lightly beside the end of the bar, ducking around it. 

The room was wreck; shattered glass spread over the floor, the antique lights were shot out and plaster from the ceiling had fallen in both chunks and a fine dust, giving some areas a ghostly pallor. Most of the top shelf stock was gone and bottles of lesser value were toppled and discarded on the ground. 

Tim pressed against the back of the bar and listened, Damian mirroring him an arms-length away. The footsteps slowly quieted, gunmen returning to the foyer. 

Waiting would simply be a waste of opportunity and so Tim vaulted lightly over the bar and sprint to the door, barely slowly to confirm there was no one left int he hall before his sprint down it and ducked into the billiard room. 

The opening was much easier to see from ground level and Tim couldn’t choke back the excitement. 

From the state of the wooden steps it was old, turn of the century perhaps, and though they were steep they were also wide. Iron fixtures attached to the stone wall looked as though they were the anchoring of some sort of handrail. Probably scavenged long again but the rusty state of the exposed fastenings, which indicated they must of have been worth the trouble of taking. 

Tim didn’t stop to consider anything else as he climbed down the step. 

At the bottom the loot was stacked, lining either wall with a narrow walkway between. The tunnel was wide, fairly high and well made enough that it was dry, deep enough that there must have been a good few feet of earth between it and the foundation of the opera house, and pristine enough that there was no wear beyond that of time.

Tim's son-of-archeologists heart sang with glee. 

“Drake! Return at once. The criminals are preparing to leave!”

But a secret tunnel… Tim looked longingly into the pitch black and sighed. 

Civic duty once against stood in the way of adventure. 

Somewhat grudgingly he climbed back up the steps, grimacing to find several low power explosives affixed above them. Not enough to damage the building, but enough to crush the stairs and bring down a good portion of the stone, blocking the passageway. As an escape it was decent. Tim was impressed. 

Still. It was not foolproof. 

With three bottles of vodka snatched from the boxes of liquor, Tim ducked behind the displaced billiard table.

“What now?” Damian demanded huffily. He wasn’t looking at Tim and was once again holding his knife. Or knives, the smallest in his right and the behemoth held along the length of his left forearm. 

“Now I light a little fire.”

Molotov’s were simple enough to construct and Tim had enough practice to do so quicker than most. The only difficulty was the quality of the bottles themselves, thick enough that breaking upon impact was far from a guarantee. Hence three. 

A small matchbook with the crest of the opera house embossed over the deep blue packet took care of the ignition. 

From the foyer the criminals bullhorn was once against being utilized, this time to order the hostages outside. A good move; the sudden flood of terrified, discombobulated people would overwhelm the police and personal outside. They would have no way of knowing whether they were all victims or if the criminals were mixed in with them. Whether it was all of them or whether more were being held inside. As long as the thieves moved quickly, they could be gone and their exit collapsed before a single police officer set foot on the premises. 

Which meant Tim would have to time this carefully. 

Set the fire too early and the thieves would have plenty of time to turn back and retake the stragglers as hostages. Too late and he would risk burning them as they descended. So he waited at the door to the billiard room, three unlit molotov’s tucked under one arm and a burning twist of program paper, provided by a silent Damian. 

A group of thieves appeared at the entrance of the hall at a run and Tim lit the cloths (donated once again by Damian) and threw the first bottle with all his strength.

It hit the edge of the first step and did not break, rolling out of sight. 

Damian scoffed. 

Undeterred, Tim threw the second and the third, taking off for the bar at a dead run without waiting to see if he succeeded. The cracking, whooshing explosion of the third was audible enough that he didn’t need to. 

The thieves spotted them and shouted, guns swinging down, and Tim and Damian rolled into the bar as both gunfire and a much greater explosion cracked in tandem. 

The few remains ceiling lights swayed and under his hands the vibration of the explosion felt like a ripple. 

Success. 

A small part of him was weeping for lost history. The rest was glad he wouldn't have to let the police track his phone after all.

Tim skidded to a stop beneath the dangling vent grate and linked his hands into a stirrup, jostling it impatiently when Damian puffed up and started to open his mouth. There was no time for arguing now. Thankfully, Damian agreed and sullenly utilized the stirrup.

After Damian was boosted into the vent Tim climbed onto the bar, glanced once over his shoulder to see the first thief enter the room, unmasked and snarling, and then hurled himself at the vent. 

One hand missed, nails dragging down the wall, but the other hooked the edge and he pulled himself in. 

Damian waited further up the vent and Tim wasted no time returning the favor of slapping his foot. 

“Go, go, go!”

“Touch me again and I shall break your nose,” Damian said frostily but crawled forward even faster than Tim would have. 

Which proved to be for the best, as bullied punched through the wall beneath them and into vent behind them; had they returned the way they had come, they would be as perforated as the plaster. 

An intersection came and Damian took the right. Though Tim couldn’t see much around the other boy, the dim light of a another grate appeared and the vent groaned and shuddered as Damian bashed it inelegantly open, tumbling through. 

By the time Time dropped out after him Damian was on his feet and on the other side of a utility room. Several sinks, a few spigots spouting from the concrete walls, a line of narrow lockers and fourteen wheeled mop buckets. The door was unlocked and Damian peered through it at the narrow corridor beyond. 

“Stairs,” he whispered, head jerking to the right. 

“A back way for staff,” Tim theorized. “This is the northern wing, newer construction. It should let out on the second floor, maybe go all the way to the roof.”

Damian nodded. “I am going to find my father. You come with me.”

Gut clenching, Tim took a step back. 

He couldn’t… no. He couldn’t face Bruce Wayne or Batman. Any attention from either iteration of the man would have terrible consequences for Tim, for his father. He still had yet to dispel the cloud of suspicion over his family and he was lucky that so far that Batman had not begun investigating. 

He had faith in Batman as a detective. He had more faith in Dorrance’s ability to frame his parents if he so chose. 

“No. I need to find Dorrance. And please don’t mention… what we did.”

“I did nothing,” Damian said primly. “And I see no reason for you to seek out that man.”

“He’s my guardian, of course I have to seek him out. And neither of us can afford the scrutiny of having our actions known. I can’t afford it. Please. Don’t tell anyone.”

Appealing to Damian’s sympathies side seemed to have as much chance success as requesting a glacier exude heat, but surprisingly, after a long moment of frowning scrutiny, he nodded. 

“Very well.” Smoothing back his hair and adjusting the lapels of his jacket, now dust streaked and rumpled, Damian still looked sleek and elegant. Apparently he truly had gotten the best of Bruce Wayne’s genetics if he could still appear suave even now. “You are now in my debt.”

Tim snorted. “Fine, whatever you say.” Then he looked up the stairs, back at Damian and did the decent thing despite not having even a microgram of hope for sucess. “You know, it would probably be safer to stay he—“

“No.”

“Okay then.” After all, Damian seemed just as competent as Tim. Wherever he had been before appearing in Gotham had clearly provided decent training. Though the fondness for knives was a little disconcerting. “Just try to avoid contact. Your a child, but you could still be charged with assault.” Another look over the knives in his hands. “Or manslaughter.”

Damian sighed wearily. “This country is truly backwards.”

They parted ways at the second floor, as the Wayne box was on the third and highest level and Dorrances the second. Through the door they could hear a commotion from the hall and from the distant foyer. Gunshots and shouting, likely due tot eh police finally making an entrance. 

Tim cracked the door and peered into the dim hall, seeing nothing but dropped programs and a single broken light. For all the gunfire, there were not even any bullet holes in the wall. 

“Stay safe,” he whispered to Damian, and began edging through the gap only to jerk to a halt when the other boy grabbed his wrist. He looked back as Damian slapped his smaller knife into his hand and manually closed his fingers around it. 

“Do not die,” Damian demanded and sprinted away without a glance. 

Tim looked at the knife. Small, razor sharp, well balanced and clearly well cared for. He flipped it through various grips, the metal already skin warm as it slid smoothly over his calluses. It was obviously handcrafted and expensive and brutally beautiful. Blades were not Tims preferred weapon, but this one was… comforting. 

A small part of him was trying to acknowledge the the gesture of having someone else give him a method of self protection was the comforting thing and not the knife itself. He ignored that part. 

He went into the hall. 

The sounds of conflict were distant, the gunfire tapering off, but further up the hall was an arrhythmic, muffled thud thud thud. 

Tims skin crawled. 

Switching his grip to hide the knife along the back his wrist, Tim eased carefully forward. 

Rounding the gentle curve of the hall, Tim was unsurprised to find more evidence of violence. It was scale of it that surprised him. 

The door of Dorrances hung from a single distorted hinge, wood turned to a clumsy lattice work of splinters and punched out bullet holes. The blue curtain was torn from its rings and lay half into the hall. 

One of the bodyguards lay crumpled on the carpet, the fibers darkened to near black with blood. The top of his head was pulped, blown to pieces. The shooter must have been very close. Slightly lower. The bullets had entered from beneath the left side his jaw, far neater than the exit wounds. The shooter had come up from behind and had managed to surprise him, enough that he wasn’t even able to fully turn around. 

Another body lay further up the hall, the source of the bodyguards distraction. That death had been far cleaner. Two neat holes in the head, precise shots from a well trained guard. Not that that training had saved him.

The thudding came from the box and Tim could recognize it now. The meaty, muffled crack of fists against flesh. 

He swallowed and walked through the door. 

Three thieves were sprawled throughout the box. Dead, all of them, arms twisted and bones stabbing like white and red spears through clothing and skin. One was half draped over the railing, left leg horrifyingly elongated and dangle, every jointed torn from its socket and tendon snapped. 

The second bodyguard stood against he wall to the left of the door gun drawn but unused, face stiff and pale with fear. 

Tim saw all of it but the only thing he was aware of was Dorrance, kneeling on the floor with the tiny frame of Hilda Davenport beneath him, one fist driving repeating into the concave remnants of her torso. 

“Sir,” the bodyguard said softly. Dorrance didn’t stop. “Sir, the kid is back.”

“I am aware,” Dorrance said calmly. He deliver once last blow and stood smoothly. Blood spatter over his face, coated his hands. It smeared over his legs as he smooth his pants, twitched his jacket into place. Coated his hair as he swept it back in a gesture eerily similar to Damian’s.

Then he looked sightlessly to the door and smiled. “Hello Timothy. Welcome back.”

The back of Tims throat burned and he was certain that if he opened his mouth he would vomit. Or scream. The knife still held loosely in his hand felt fire hot against the ice cold of his skin, and it felt like forcing together the opposing poles of two magnets keeping it by his side and not bury it in Dorrances throat. 

Dorrance extended a hand and the bodyguard leapt to press his cane into it. 

“Now,” he said lightly as he settled in a seat, the distorted leg of the thief nearest him mere inches from broad shoulders. “You know why I did this?”

He gestured at Hilda. The seemingly untouchable, eternal scion of Gotham society looked so small and broken, like a crow on the side of the road. All broken bones and bent feathers, sleek ferocity peeled back by death, displayed the delicacy that had lived beneath it. 

Tim looked at the dead men and nodded. He did know why. 

“She saw you,” he said, whisper soft and toneless. 

Dorrance smiled. “She did. Inconvenient, wouldn’t you say? I did have so many uses for her. A pity.”

“And me?” Tim asked. The calm that was settling over him, smoothing out the tension from his bones, loosening his muscles, was familiar by now. The sharp stillness was as easy as dying. “I suppose you could say I saw you too.”

Dorrance barked a laugh. His eyes were piercing for all they say nothing and Tim met them steadily. 

“Oh, my boy. You’ve always seen me, haven’t you.”

Tim didn’t deny it. It was even truer than Dorrance could know. 

“Yes,” Dorrance murmured, warm and satisfied. “Like does recognize like.”

“Are you going to kill me then?” Tim asked. 

“No. Unlike Mrs Davenport, you can still be useful to me. Can’t you, Timothy?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. So don’t fret, you are safe with me. I did promise your parents, didn’t I?”

Hatred had a taste, Tim thought quietly. It was simply a taste impossibly to categorize. It coated his tongue like tar as he smiled and said “Yes sir.”

“Good boy.” Then he flipped his cane and brought it down over the front of his head with a crack. 

Tim flinched and the bodyguard startled back, almost out the door entirely, jarring against Tims shoulder. 

Dorrance hummed thoughtfully, spun the cane and brought it down twice more. Blood poured down his face, a wet, shining red sheet. 

“What the fuck,” the bodyguard breathed unsteadily. Tim simply watched with the handle of the knife hard and grounding against his palm, side of the blade warm on his wrist. 

Tim glanced at the thieves, at Mrs Davenports small corpse. It was simple brutality. Mindless and savage and horrifying. It was murder. 

It obviously could not be considered self defense. Especially not Mrs Davenport. And so a cover story was needed, or at least a misdirection. Tim assumed this was part of such a plan. Either to support a claim of self defense or inability to have performed any violence at all. 

With the severity of the blows Dorrance had just performed, both would be difficult to argue against. Not that they seemed to hinder him at all. 

Tim watched the man shrug with a click of joints, neck cracking and flinging drops of blood over the railing. Then he gestured the bodyguard closer. 

“Come here and push this guy over.”

Tim heard the man gulp but his hands were steady as he holstered his gun and he walked quickly over. With a firm grip on the mans untangled leg, he flipped it over the railing. 

Then Dorrance gripped the bodyguards ankle and shoved him after. 

“No!” 

Lunging over toppled chairs and Mrs Davenport, Tim reached the railing just in time to hear the start of the mans cut off scream and the crack on his body hitting. Tim stared down, nausea a sharp hook at the back of his throat as he stared at the man, neck and back angled sharp and wrong across the back of the pit seating. 

Too late again.

A hand dropped between his shoulders and he breathed out, going still. Dorrance tapped his thumb in a cheerful, light rhythm against his shoulder-blade, but the pressure behind his hand was heavy. Pressed forward with the railing hard and bruising against his sternum, Tim could only look down at the dead. 

Vividly, he could see a dozen possible outcomes, spinning through the back of his minds eye like carousel of demented horses. Round and round and round. 

A single shove and he would fall, perhaps able to catch himself on the box railing and slow it to avoid certain death. 

A sharp movement to the side, ducking out of the mans hold. Spinning to bring Damian’s blade down and sever the tendons of Dorrances wrist. Follow through with a stab to the throat.

A tight grip and a lunge, dragging Dorrance with him, dragging him down to die the same ignoble death as the bodyguards whose name Tim had never bothered to learn. 

Round and round and round. Probabilities and possibilities cutting and stacking like a deck of cards.

“Such a brave man,” Dorrance said. “A faithful guard to the end. Not his fault he was so outnumbered, that he could not save dear Hilda. His sacrifice is quite incredible, isn’t it, Timothy?”

Janet Drake had been a strategist. Cold cunning that informed every decision of her life, shaped the world according to her own interests. Her weapons were patience, intelligence and ruthlessness. Her deadliest tactic that of slow, subtle erosion, collapsing the foundations beneath her enemies and climbing over the ruins that remained.

Tim had never thought himself capable of that sort of patience. Then again, he had never wanted anything so desperately as the complete annihilation of the man beside him. 

“He was very brave,” Tim said agreeably and Dorrance laughed deep and quiet, huge hand sweeping up the back of his neck to cup his skull. 

“Good boy.”

Tim had all the patience in the world. 

The news was awash with retellings of the nights tragedy. The obituary and funerary arrangements of Gotham scion Hilda Davenport was front page, top billing, first words from the mouths of the talking heads on TV. 

Especially targeted by the thieves for the black diamonds of her husbands family, worth several million. A target that had proven difficult to subdue. According to her dear friend and fellow victim, Sir Dorrance, she had been unable to undo the clasp of her necklace and drawn the psychotic ire of one of the thieves. One of Dorrances own bodyguards had been ambushed and gunned down in the hall, while the one remaining had been forced into hand to hand combat to protect his employer and Mrs Davenport. 

Shocking! Barbaric! A tragedy.

The footage of Dorrance exiting the building, supported on one side by a police officer and by his ward on the other, was shown every hour. A wounded hero. A victim of savagery. 

“Thank God Timothy was not there for it,” Dorrance said, giving a brief interview from his hospital bed. The white of hospital linens exacerbated the mans pallor, the haggard set of his face. “Thank God he, at least, was safe.”

Equally shocking was the fate of Bruce Wayne and his diva inamorata. Sahpia Baldi, rising star of the opera scene and exquisite beauty, was exposed as part of the plot. While the thieves targeted Mrs Davenport and several others, she attempted lure Bruce Wayne from the building in order to spirit him away for ransom. An unnamed bystander had heroically intervened, but during the struggle, Bruce Wayne had been shot multiple times. His condition was as yet undetermined but the rumor was that he might well be crippled.

Horrible! A travesty!

Tim did not pay attention to the drama. Beyond a cold but inevitably stifled wash of terror for Bruce Wayne, for Damian, he did not give any of it any thought. 

There were other matters to attend to.

He had played his game too cautiously. Reward was directly proportional to risk. He knew Dorrance now, knew him better and more completely than perhaps anyone else. He knew where the mans weaknesses lay and now… Now was the time to wear those weakness thinner. 

Eventually he would create a chink in the mans armor. And when he did, he would go right for it. 

Spinning the knife between his fingers, Tim lay on his back with his eyes on the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for graphic violence and murder, incendiary devices I was too chicken to research properly and more creepy Dorrance behavior. Also, minors with knives.
> 
> I hate that I can't put all the background stuff into this story! There's so much going on beyond Damian and Tims adventure! But, it just doesn't flow well here, so it will have to wait until I have time for writing more and putting them together elsewhere. 
> 
> I also might not be able to update on time for the next months or so. Things are getting very busy here. I will try, but if it doesn't happen on time or at all, then don't worry, I am not dropping the story. I'm just swamped. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Comment if inclined and have a good day/night :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs at end of chapter

Gotham Academy had changed far more than Tim was expecting. Less than a year away and already several buildings had been renamed, and new ones were built. The tennis courts had been swapped with the track field and the lacrosse team at long last had their own field. 

There were different faces as well. A host of new teachers and students, new money and old, immigrants from other states and cities and countries, and born and bred Gothamites. He knew most of them had likely swept through in the wake of the financial collapse. The principle had been replaced though the vice principle remained the same, and Tim had yet to see a hint of the previous fifth grade science teacher he had sourced chemicals from. 

Tim had thought with all the differences it would be harder to acclimate, especially after the relative freedom of public school. But it was as simple as stepping into well worn shoes. 

The pressure was the same. He had tested into an accelerated program for gifted children and shot forward several grades once again, the way paved by Dorrances request. Tim was a freshman now, and the youngest there. Expectations were high once more and with that came scrutiny. He wasn't nameless and unnoticed any longer. 

In a way that made things all the simpler. With such expectations his options were limited and therefore easier to choose from. 

And now, though there were more eyes on him, none of them were in Dorrances direct employ. 

Which meant Tim now had unsupervised access to a computer for the first time in months. 

He was going to abuse that privilege to death. 

For the past several weeks he had been working to acclimatize the recently hired computer science teacher. The woman was small, out of her depth and disgusted with the concept of humanity in general, so Tim thought they had some solid commonality to build on. And to build on it, he respectfully ignored her presence and enjoyed the returned favor. 

So far, their symbiotic silence was the most smoothly progressing project Tim was currently undertaking. 

The course load was not difficult, but it was time consuming. And unlike his previous school he could not exchange favors or simply avoid notice in order to skip classes.

In order to have the time to pursue his own projects he usually spent lunch in the 12th grade computer science room. He’d taken to bringing the teacher something from the cafeteria, an effective bribe for entrance, and now she left the door unlocked and barely looked up when he slipped in. 

The computers themselves were the best on the market and also had the best restriction programs. Breaking through them each day took up precious time, and overwriting his presence took even more. In the end, he was left with a little under twenty-five minutes to work. 

He had three SD cards from fellow students and two from faculty. None supported the type of encryption he preferred but he had done what he could, and when he left the classroom he carried them out in the bottom of his shoe. At the end of the day they were stored in the boys restroom in the arts wing, behind a tile he had pried free and re-secured with adhesive putty. 

So he had the means and he had the storage. Now all he needed was the evidence. 

Drake Ind was slowly being swallowed under Dorrances primary companies, but Tim still had access to some areas. 

So far he’d found no solid evidence but a host of leads.

Like the sudden disappearance of Dominic Hardy, fifty-eight, accountant for Drake Pharmaceuticals. Or the new supplier from Taiwan. Or, most interestingly, the rerouting of imported computer components through a superfluous port, eighty miles out of the previous route. 

All had been decisions made after his mothers death. With his father in a coma and Dorrance acting as CEO, Tim was sure that these actions would lead back to Dorrances guilt in all that had come before. 

Saving another accounts report onto SD card three, Tim began the boring process of overwriting his history with shoddy porn and wikipedia articles. 

At the teachers desk by the door Malayla Cohen was picking at the last of the sbaked goods Tim had smuggled in. She made extremely brief eye contact and nodded, grunting around the mouthful of cranberry bran. Tim returned the gesture and left. 

The last class of the day was art. Painting still life for the freshmen. Tim, as the youngest and least motivated, had eventually been shuffled to the back of the room. His canvas so far was a single strangle purple apple, floating in a void of poorly covered canvas and black paint.

Tim could certainly do better. But he didn’t want to. 

Using the edge of his thumb he smeared a swathe of pink as a half hearted highlight and the teacher sighed in muted pain as he walked behind him. When he hurried away to a more promising student, Tim was left in the presence of Stella Benson, thorn in his side and his eardrums. 

“Your technique is quite interesting,” she chirped brightly. “Did you learn it in preschool?”

“No actually, I learnt it from depictions on cavern walls. True art is made to last, wouldn’t you agree?”

Stella’s too pink to be natural lips compressed. Unlike everyone else, she had managed to charm the teacher into allowing her to pick her own materials and she had gone with coffee. It made her actually very impressive painting unique and eye catching. It was also driving Tim almost feral and so he wasn’t able to hold back from sniping at her. 

Really, would she even miss it if he swiped one of those little jars? Maybe he could snag the paintbrush…

Class ended and Tim leisurely packed his bag, watching from the corner of his eye until almost all the students were gone. The teacher was in quiet conference with two other students by the row of busts depicting famous alumni and historical figures. The man very obviously avoided eye contact with Tim as he walked by and he hid a smirk behind a yawn. 

The restroom was empty as usual when he entered, smelling faintly of cologne and air freshener. Checking the stalls as he hurried down the row, he ducked into the second to last one and latched it before stepping onto the toilet.

The counting three down and two across from the left hand corner, Tim popped out the tile and fished the SD cards from the side of his shoe, tucking them into the hollowed he’d gouged into the drywall. Fitting the tile back in place with his thumbs tucked along the edges to muffle the click as it fit back into place, he breathed out in relief. The few times he had been forced to take them back to Dorrances mansion had been nerve wracking. 

Tim was picked up at the secondary exit from Gotham Academy and usually took his time getting there from across the campus. Most of the students were already congregating at the front entrance and so the back of the campus was near desolate, only a few staff or extracurricular club members remaining. 

Tim cut across the green. Benches and fountains and small mounded hills of exotic gardens formed something of a park. The cobblestone walkways were stippled with bronze plaques for those with enough prestige or backing to warrant it. Only a gardener and a man in a cheap suit were in view. 

Tim slowed. 

The man was staring at him, hands distending the pockets of his frayed cuff trousers. Medium height, with broad shoulders, a small scar cutting through one brow. His grin was lopsided and rogueish as he nodded at Tim. 

Tim stopped well out of arms reach and did not return the gesture. 

The green was one of the few places with minimal surveillance, both from security camera’s or line of sight. It was one of the reasons Tim walked through it every day and certainly the reason this out of place man was laying in wait. 

“Timothy Drake, right?” The man drawled, rocking on his heels. 

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Do I have to call security?”

“Not for me,” the man said happily and strolled nearer. So close Tim could easily make out the bruise dark crescents under his eyes and the patchy stubble from a poor attempt at shaving. He smelled of old sweat and cheap deodorant and cheaper food. 

“You’ll understand if I don’t believe that.”

“I suppose I do. I’m Clyde Rawlins.” Reaching into his suit jacket, he pulled out a battered leather ID holder and flipped it open. “DEA.”

Shifting his book bag to the opposite shoulder, Tim hummed thoughtfully. “Are there concerns about substance abuse on the grounds, sir?”

Rawlins grinned. “Why? Seen anything?”

Tim smiled sweetly back and said nothing. 

“Alright, that’s fine. I’m not here about the school anyway.” 

Of course not. Tim never thought he had been.

“My driver is waiting and if I’m not there in the next five minutes he’ll come find me.” A threat and incentive in one; he wanted the man to make whatever move he was planning without an audience. 

“You’re a smart guy. Thats good.” The brown of his eyes chilled, and the friendly stance eased into something predatory. “You want to figure out what really happened to your parents, kid?” 

Things shifted and clicked in the back of his mind as Tim kept the racing of his heart and the clenching of gut off his face. 

His mother had always been a patient woman. A spider weaving webs and waiting. But when opportunity came she struck without hesitation. 

This. This was an opportunity. 

Easing back onto his heels, Tim nodded. 

Clyde Rawlins had primarily been investigating Dorrance's connection to the heroin trade for several years. Considering Dorrance spent most of his time moving between Hong Kong and England, it was difficult to compile evidence of his connection to the trade of those locations and America, but Rawlins had been determined. 

He told Tim that the heroin import had slowed significantly since Dorrance relocated to Gotham and Rawlins was certain this was because he had something even more profitable in the works. 

If there was a connection between Dorrances criminal interests and the attack on his parents, any information Tim gave could prove helpful. 

“I met your parents once,” Rawlins said. They were almost to the secondary exit and Tim knew that the driver would be coming for him in the next two minutes. Still, he risked staying to listen. “LA, just starting out as an agent. We delayed a flight in order to get some low level mule, had to line up all the passengers to find him. Your mom was beautiful. Classy. Didn’t curse out our entire family trees for delaying things. Thanked us for our hard work.”

Rawlins snorted in shallow amusement. “For the next three days after we were all a little in love. Story of the week, she was.” He swept a glance over Tim’s face. “You look like her.”

Tim swallowed and looked sharply at his feet. 

“Ah. Shit. Sorry.” Rawlins shuffled awkwardly.  
“No. No, its fine. Thank you.” Looking out the gate and down the stairs leading to the street, Tim saw the familiar black town car Dorrance had assigned him. Through the tint windows he could see a sliver of the drivers shoulder. “You should go.”

“Right.” Rawlins backed further into shadows of the gates pillars, well out of sight of the road but cautious regardless. For a moment something cracked in his steady stare, too quickly there and gone again for Tim to interpret. “Will you be alright? No ones hurting you?”

This Tim could answer honestly as no one had raised a hand to him since Dorrance claimed possession. 

“No one has hurt me. I’m fine.”

Rawlins dug through his pockets and pulled out a crumpled business card, discolored and lint covered. “Here. My number. If you feel in danger at all, you call me.”

Tim glanced over the number on the card but didn’t take it. Its presence would be impossible to explain when his things were inevitably search. He would remember the number anyway. 

“I’ve got to go. I’ll see you monday.”

“Kid, wait—“

“Goodbye Mr Rawlins.”

Walking casually but quickly down the stairs, Tim slid into the car just as the driver opened it and slid down the seat to the sound of it closing. 

The driver was once again a stranger. By now Time as confident it was on purpose, another isolation tactic by Dorrance to encourage dependency. Unfortunately for him, Tim was more than accustomed to isolation. A few months of steady social contact with Steph had not been nearly enough to break the habit. 

Still. It was interesting. Perhaps it was not merely an effort to isolate Tim from other people, but also to prevent bonds between other people and him. Which would indicate that he did not trust his people to remain detached. Which would in turn indicate that Dorrance did not trust his people. 

Tim could perhaps use that. 

Then they took a different turn and Tim had something else to worry about. 

He waited until they were well and obviously off route before commenting. Never display the depth of competency to the enemy. 

“Hey, this doesn’t look right. Are we lost?”

The driver sighed. “Boss wants you to meet him.”

“Meet him where?” Tim dropped an elbow on the armrest set in the door, hand casually resting on his fist as he met the drivers eyes in the mirror. The door was locked, unable to opened from the back and it would take time and effort to break through the window. 

“Downtown.”

Tim could see that. The brusque impatience indicated further questions would cause anger or suspicion and so he settled in to look with affected boredom out the window. Internally, warning regarding secondary locations was spinning on a loop. 

He wondered if any of this had to do with Rawlins. He hadn’t seemed like a plant set by Dorrance and the badge had been real. The picture ID appeared accurate as well. But it was still a possibility that it been some sort of test and he had just failed it. If that were the case, he doubted this would be a two way trip. 

They pulled smoothly into an underground parking garage. The building was three stories, a Chinese restaurant and nightclub called The Blue Kirin. The garage was small and cramped and already half full, the ceiling low. The yellow lights flickered in places. 

It wasn’t the sort of place Tim was used seeing the inside of. During better days when he surveilled he would be hidden across streets or on rooftops. 

The town car glided to a stop in front of the elevators and the locks clicked open. “Top floor. He’s waiting for you.”

Ominous. Ominous and tacky, that was straight out a bad horror flick. He wished he could laugh at it, but his stomach was churning. Tacky horror movie lines weren’t quite so humorous when they involved actual monsters. 

“Thanks for the lift,” he said brightly. He had barely spilled out of the car before it was driving away. 

Not going to be taken back to the mansion by that driver, then. Yet another bad sign. 

The phone number he’d memorized floated through the back of his mind, his fingers buzzing with the sudden urge to punch it in. He still had a cellphone. If he went to the garage entrance he would probably get reception. 

He frowned. Now was not the time to lose his nerve. This could simply be a change in routine, not some sort of sinister plan. 

Not that he was going to bet on it being anything less than evil. 

He wasn’t ready to cut and run though.

Squaring his shoulders, he went into the surprisingly large elevator and punched in the third floor. As it smoothly ascended he pulled out his phone, scrolling through messages while angling it to check for cameras in the reflection. Two in the back corners and another behind a semi opaque panel in the center of the ceiling. More than a regular restaurant or nightclub would generally need, but it was conservative by Gotham standards. 

The doors opened as he pocketed his phone and sauntered out. 

The nightclub portion of the business was apparently on the upper floor. As it was still afternoon, it was empty, the lights unfiltered and bright. Chairs were upended on the tops of tall chrome tables and a janitor was mopping the onyx dark flooring of the dance floor situated in front of impressive floor to ceiling windows. For a mere three stories high, the view was decent. 

Dorrance sat in front of the stage at the far end of the room on the only set table. Two men sat with him, looking comically outclassed in dress, size and general sense of self possession. One was short and middleaged, black hair and neatly trimmed goatee. The other a rail thin blond with a wrinkled tanned suit and thick framed glasses. 

Dorrance turned in his seat, smiling broadly. The elevator thumped softly closed. 

“Timothy. Come join me.”

Obediently, Tim picks this way through upended chairs and tables as tall as his shoulder, pretending not to notice the uneasy stares of the two men. 

“Hello sir.”

“Timothy. Have a seat.” 

Under the blatant eyes of the men, Tim hosted himself onto the seat, setting his book bag on the table. His feet dangled. 

Dorrance dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Gentlemen, this is my ward, Timothy Drake.”

The dark haired man had gone pale, the hands linked and resting on the tabletop clenching so tight his knuckles were white and he swallowed heavily. The other seemed mostly confused.

“Hello,” Tim said politely. 

“Nice to meet you,” the blond muttered. 

“Drake, you said?” The other murmured. His throat clicked as he swallowed. 

Dorrance nodded. His hand still rested on Tim shoulder, thumb tapping just below his neck. 

“Yes. The son of my late business partners.” Dorrance sighed. “No doubt you heard of what happened?”

“Yes. I did. And you're his guardian now?”

White teeth flashed in a smiled. “Yes. I take care of all the business partners. Whats mine is theirs and what’s theirs,” he ruffled Tim’s hair “is mine.”

Tim held still. Loose and easy and with a faint hint of confusion as he glanced at Dorrance. The picture of a child out of his depth. 

Inside his whole body felt smothered in revulsion. 

“Very kind of you, very kind,” the blond said, fidgeting. 

The other man was staring at Tim, face blank and eyes filled with something horrified and defeat. 

Whatever part Tim was playing here, whatever message Dorrance was sending, it was being received exactly as Dorrance intended. This was a man broken. Silently and with only a few words and a soft demonstration. 

“Anyway, gentlemen, I’m afraid I must head home with this young man. It might be the weekend, but that reason to go wild now, is it?”

The blond scrambled out of his seat, smoothing out creases as he beamed and agreed enthusiastically. Obviously relieved to be released. 

The other man was slower and more diplomatic, and he watched Tim almost continually. Clearly he thought he could do so unobserved confiding Dorrance was blind. A mistake, of course, but not one Tim could correct. 

As the two entered the elevator, Dorrance smiled directly at the man. 

“Say hello to your kids for me.”

The doors slid shut. 

Well, that explained why Tim had been brought over. A demonstration was the best way to ensure a threat sunk in. 

“How was school?” Dorrance asked. He shook of his cuffs, cane leaning against his thigh. 

“Good, sir.”

“Excellent. I’m stopping off at Drake Ind. headquarters. You don’t mind, do you Timothy?”

“No, sir. That would be interesting actually. I haven’t been since… well, you know.” Tim allowed a trace of excitement to color his tone. It was true enough; he did want to see the headquarters again. Many of the servers there were closed and impossible to get into from elsewhere, and even if he was unable to touch a computer seeing in person how the company had changed would be valuable. 

Driving through Gotham traffic from the Blue Kirin to the business district took almost two hours. After downsizing so rapidly, Drake Ind had moved headquarters to the Bauer building, a new construction with twenty floors. 

Dorrance had bought the building three months ago and half gutted it, rebelling it according to his own design. Tim had managed to see some of the blueprints in passing and some of them stuck out as being strange. The proportions off from the blueprints of the original floor-plans Tim had seen when his mother leased the building. 

If the research facilities had been any indication of Dorrances preferences, Tim had no doubt a great many of those changes would not be registered with the city and some of that mysterious difference of square footage would be due to hidden additions. 

Whatever Dorrance had to hide now, he was clearly keeping it closer to home rather than further afield. 

Which was all the better for Tim, really. He was already in the vipers nest, after all. It made it that much easier to set it afire. 

Tim sat in the cafeteria with a muffin and cup of coffee and listened. 

So far he had heard several interesting rumors. Such as the department of finance was still in upheaval, entire sections int he process of being replaced. Or the night workers had received a pay increase and optional increase in hours. Stacy Callagan, who had head of the legal department for thirty-eight years, had retired abruptly and been scandalously replaced by Herman Zhang, a non-Gothamite nobody. Minty Lewis and Hannah Bates from PR were once again feuding and did you hear about that Doctor Thomas?

So. At least some of it had remained the same. 

Rumors in regards to his parents were split down the middle. Some, mostly the newer hires, were more than willing to repeat all the speculation about what exactly the two had been caught up in. Surely there was no smoke without fire? And with Tim sitting there in plain view, more than one person wondered what they must of been thinking. How lucky the boy survived, didn’t they realize how much danger they would put him in?

The more interesting and certainly less anger inducing comments were by older employees. The kitchen staff quietly but firmly were of the opinion that something was off. The Drakes were not the sort to mingle with those kinds of people. They were too intelligent, especially Mrs Drake. Things had been so much better when she was in charge, no strange newcomers coming in and out all hours, no ridiculous cleaning schedules that made no sense. And if one more person was fired without proper notice and replaced within hours they would revolt, just see if they didn’t!

Sweeping the crumbs of his muffin off the table and into a napkin, Tim ambled around the edge of the room to the trash, setting his white mug on a tray with its fellows. Across the room the goon of the day followed after him. 

Dorrance had left for a meeting half an hour ago with no hint of how long it would take to finish, leaving Tim with no timeframe. Walking down the hallway and looking interestedly at all the changes, Tim weighed his options. 

He could simply wander around in plain view, completely innocent and not suspicious at all, and wait for another opportunity. Or he could take a risk and get what he wanted now. 

It wasn’t a difficult decision. 

He stood by the elevators looking out a window, while the guard watched him from the other end of the hallway, and waited until the elevator opened to reveal a sufficiently large number of people. Two disembarked, walking side by side and briefly blocking the sightline between Tim and his shadow. 

Just as the doors began to slide closed Tim walked in. He could see the guard racing towards him just before they fell closed with a soft thump.

The six others in the car didn’t pay him much attention and when two fo them disembarked three floors up, Tim followed, splitting off with a smile at the one man who gave him a mildly curious once over. 

Tim meandered down the hallway, memorizing the positioning of the security camera’s, the offices that were open and the ones that were locked, the few people he passed as he walked. Here, on the twentieth floor, it was mostly empty. Drake Ind had not recovered enough to need all the twenty floors of the Bauer building. It was largely untouched by the renovations of the rest of the building, the walls still the same ashy white it had been when his mother had leased the building, not the pure white that Dorrance had ordered. 

Two right turns later he came to the end of the hallway and his destination. 

The records room was unmarked, whether for security purposes or simply because it had been overlooked. Its locks were upgrade and the keypad beside the door was shiny with newness. 

Tim had memorized the passcodes and passwords of a third of the staff of Drake Ind. Some of them had been fired, some had likely changed their passcodes after the renovation, narrowing his options somewhat. But he knew that some of them were creatures of habit and it was one of those that he gambled on. 

572225*. The door chimed quietly and the locked clicked open. 

The records room was large and dark, one of the lights flickering for a long moment after he flipped the switched. Rows of file cabinets extended in eight long lines down the length of the room, creating steel canyons. All of them were locked and their bases bolted to the floor, but Tim was not interested in them anyway. 

At the far side of the room were six small cubicles containing printers, scanners and computers, all connected to a single server. Tim chose the second to last one and dropped into the orthopedic massage chair and turned on the monitor. 

He looked at the scattered knickknacks and various office supplies. Strawberry shaped sticky note pads, a pen holder covered in chipped seashells and glitter, a bright orange stapler. There were pinholes in the carpeted wall of the cubicle where photos had been removed and Tim gnawed his lip, wondering when the cubicles owner had become uncomfortable and nervous enough to remove them. 

The screen glowed. 

A password to unlock the computer and another to connect to the server, both exactly the same as when he’d memorized them. 

The clock read 6:09; he had been in the building for almost an hour and he doubted he had much time. Either the meeting would end and Dorrance would have him brought down to the garage, or the guard would inform Dorrance that Tim had disappeared, which would ensure that he was found even sooner. 

Digging quickly through a desk drawer, he found a camera tucked in the back corner, digital and cheap, clearly not used for months. Holding his breath, he popped open the bottom and grinned upon finding exactly what he need. A micro SD card. 

From there it was the work of minutes to delete the data from it and begin downloading the information on all the new hires for the past four months. Estimated time 22 minutes. 

Tim moved to the neighboring cubicle and set about creating an alibi.

29 minutes and 41 seconds later the guard slammed into the room with a cowed office worker scuttling at his heels. 

Tim leaned back in his chair to watch the man stomp up the aisle between filing cabinets. His face was flushed with anger and his teeth gritted, scowling at Tim between long sweeping looks at the rest of the room. 

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” He snarled. 

Tim scowled back and hurriedly tried to click out of window on the screen, yelping when the man grabbed the back of the chair and sent it careening to the opposite wall. He slammed a palm on the desk, leaning down to look at the screen. 

Janet Drake smiled from the screen, moving fluidly as she gestured at the display behind her, the sound of the recording muted but taking nothing away from her charisma as she charmed unseen business people. It was the last presentation she had given, two weeks before she died. The video had been archived just as every other one before had, dozens of of them all showcasing her skill and intelligence and sheer presence. Without quite realizing when it happened, Tim found himself watching her rather than the guard, eyes glued on motions of her hands and the swing of her loose hair. 

The man had turned, staring over his shoulder and Tim jerked back from the leaning position had taken at some point in order to look around the bulk of the mans body. He scowled and crossed his arms, the defensiveness not as feigned as he would have liked.

“What?” His voice cracked. 

For a moment the man simply stared at him, unreadable. Then he turned back to the computer, the video vanishing with a press of his finger. “Nothing.”

Tim stood up from the chair, pointlessly smoothing down his uniform shirt before collecting his blazer from the desk. “Why are you here?”

“You aren’t supposed to be wandering around,” the man grunted, frown returning even stronger as he recalled the point of his presence. “You can’t just run off.”

Tim rolled his eyes painfully hard and heaved a sigh. “It wasn’t like I left the building.”

“Thats not the point,” the man snapped. 

From the doorway came a timid cough. 

“I, um. I need to sign out? My shift is over and— and I need to sign out now…” The office worker twisted the strings of his lanyard around his fingers, eyed darting between Tim, the guard and the floor between his loafers. 

“Then go,” the guard snapped and scoffed at the speed with which he was obeyed. He grabbed Tims arm, grip tight but not the biting like Tim would have expected considering the level of his anger. He glanced up at the man. 

“Is Dorrance finished with his meeting?” 

“Yes,” the guard said shortly. He shoved Tim out the record rooms door and slammed it. “So hurry up.”

Tim let himself be shoved along and didn’t look back. 

In the room the program he had coded into the first computer finished erasing his presence and switched off with a soft hum. 

In his pocket, tucked into the bottom of a crumpled half empty package of bubble gum, was a tiny card with a wealth of information. 

But all Tim could focus on was the brief, artificial shadow of his mother, composed of pixels and data and forever out of reach.

The weekend was fraught as usual. Breakfast and dinner at Dorrances table, captive audience to whatever manipulation he attempted that day. As far as Tim could tell, his escapade had not been reported to the man. Then again, he might just be waiting to spring it on him in a vulnerable moment. 

It was exhausting, forever trying to anticipate the mans next move. 

The only redeeming quality of their daily interactions was that Tim was able to have a fair grasp on the mans schedule. Or at least, what he claimed to be doing. 

Sunday evening was spent on the yacht of the newly wealthy Kathy Davenport, niece of and sole beneficiary of the late Mrs Davenport. The woman was tall and long faced and would have been pretty had she played to her strength rather than attempt to emulate that of others. With a well trained eye, Tim observed the heavy and ostentatious jewelry, recently made and even more recently purchased, and the gaudy renovation of the yacht that stripped away simple elegance in place of showy wealth. 

The well groomed socialite in him was displeased to see it. Clear evidence that the Davenport legacy was at its end, killed alongside the woman that had singlehandedly carried it for decades. Kathy was a poor substitute and Tim estimated another five years before she drained the Davenport fortune dry. 

Once again, Tim was the youngest guest present. Tera Kierny was across the room with her mother, speaking to their hostess and her thirty year old son. Seventeen now, Tera had grown another inch and her hemline had dropped and her neckline plunged, hair swept up and elegant. Physically on the edge of adulthood but already pushed over it. Youth only lasted so long, for women, and Tim knew she was going to use it while she could. 

It was the one thing his mother had been grateful for, so far as Tim could tell. That he was a son and not a daughter. ‘You will have more trade on,’ she’d said once, looking him over critically as she sipped back tea.

Tera met his eyes from across the room, a brief flicker of unease passing through them when they skated over Dorrance. Tim had expected it, was relieved to see it and know that the reports and articles he had read didn’t lie; Dorrance truly was pushing out the Kierny Tech. That was leverage Tim could use and he was sure to smile back at her, bright and hopeful and inviting. 

She nodded subtly back. At some point they would find each other. 

It would not be tonight though. Dorrance was once again using Tim as a guide through the throng of guests, a habit that was now permanent. The mans heavy hand burned Tims shoulder, impossible to fully ignore. 

They moved through the crowd, Dorrance affable and pleased, Tim polite and attentive. A distinctive pair. 

“So nice to see such a well mannered and intelligent boy in such good hands,” gushed one woman, already well into her fifth glass of champaign as she pinched Tims cheeks a fraction too hard. “Terrible what happened, was worried we would never see you again, child! So glad Edmund kept you in society.”

“Thank you, Mrs Glen,” Tim said warmly, smiling with all the childish enthusiasm he could dredge up. The well was dangerously low, but he managed. But a distraction was in order. “How is Duchesse Tilde?” 

At the mention of her specularly expensive, spectacularly inbred and specularly ugly showcat, she forgot all notions of Tims circumstances and returned her gushing to a more personally favored topic. Which had the added benefit of irritating Dorrance enough to swiftly move on. 

“A stupid woman,” the man said low, words shaped into something warm and intimate by the ever present smile. Tim could hear the acidity beneath them. 

“Yes, but she has a cousin in the city planning commission,” Tim replied, letting Dorrance firmly direct him along the edge of the room while letting it appear he was leading. His skin was tight and cold at divulging any information to the man, but he knew that only useful things were kept. And he needed to be kept in the mans sphere for a while longer. “They share a fondness for the races, as well.”

Dorrance laughed softly and silently considered the information as they paused. 

Tim stared through the tall windows at the blurry lights of the Gotham coastline. The bobbing glow a buoy was visible nearby and Tim wished he could hear its bell. The sound would have been preferable to the music and the conversation and laughter of the party. More grounding and far less difficult to parse. 

Dorrances hand squeezed. 

“She was correct in one regard at least,” he rumbled, bending down to speak directly into Tim ear. The flesh of his next went tight and burning, as though it were attempting to peel away from sheer revulsion. Tim kept his body lax and his breath steady, eyes blankly settled on the bobbing yellow glow of the buoy. “You are an intelligent boy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dorrance laughed. “I would say humility doesn’t become you, but that would be a lie. Your mother trained you very well, didn’t she?”

Tim couldn’t reply around the clenching surge of hate in his throat. He wanted to tear out the mans tongue for mentioning her. Wanted to run out of reach before hearing more. 

“Did you know, I was set to be a father once,” Dorrance mused. He laughed. “I never imagined the child would be anything like you, but you also have your uses.”

“I’m not your son,” Tim said blankly. 

“No,” Dorrance agreed. “You are not. But you are mine for now, after all. Why shouldn’t we make the best of it?”

Tim hummed thoughtfully and allowed Dorrance to steer him back towards the crowd. “I am, sir. I really am.”

“Excellent,” Dorrance said and they were swept back into conversation amid the chime of crystal and the laughter of the insincere. 

Tim had carried the micro card for the entirety of the weekend, still tucked away in its protective shell of colorful paper and foil. By the time he was able to return to the computer science room at Gotham Academy, it smelled of bubblegum and the cedar sandalwood scent of Dorrances preferred laundry soap. 

He came prepared; a pilfered, half empty coffee that had been left foolishly unattended in the faculty room, and a slice of cake he had taken from cafeteria. The cake was slid across the teacher desk and the coffee went with him to the computer furthest from the door. 

The next computer class was two hours away and Tim had decided to use all of that available time. It would mean skipping one of his own classes, but it was well worth the price. Now that he had raw information he could finally starting building. 

He had been building programs in his head for months and they drained from his fingertips into the keyboard, taking form easily and quickly. Numbers flickered across the screen, there and gone and when he plugged in the card they greedily snatched up the information contained on it. 

Tim had stolen the backdoor access to a lower tier Interpol agent several years previously. It had been left carelessly on the personal computer of a family acquaintance, who had even more carelessly left Tim alone with it during a small dinner party. Tim had stripped it of anything of interest but it was the access codes that were his crowning achievement that night. 

He had not used them before. Doubtlessly it would be noticed eventually and that even of access stitched shut. But losing it was well worth it now.

More than worth it, he thought, as the employee records photos matched with those found on Interpol’s list of interest. The photos matched quickly, but the names did not. 

Five, fifteen, twenty. Criminals or merely persons of interest. Only a very few were using legitimate names. Almost all were hired at Dorrances personal recommendation. 

Tim drank tepid coffee and set to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for continued Dorrance creepiness, and implied sexualizing of a teenager being an accepted part of society (not Tim though).
> 
> Aaah, I didn't want to post this! I'm not particularly happy with because I worry about spending too much time on the minutia of Tim's plotting and day to day. Also, this is the last of my stockpiled chapters, so now I have nothing to fall back on. So scary. 
> 
> And I just want to say I really appreciate all the comments and kudos. I didn't think they would be such a nice side effect to putting my work out there. That being said, don't feel obligated to give me any of that, I know what its like to be comment shy and ITS A PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE THING TO BE!!! and don't let anyone make you feel bad about it :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs at bottom of chapter

Midway through transferring information between various accounts and cards, Tim eased over to the neighboring computer. 

He didn’t expect finding the information he needed to be easy but shockingly, it was. A single search brought up more than he imagined. 

Rawlins was even more haggard in the news articles. Bleak and blank eyed, crumpled into himself for all that he was a healthier weight than when Tim and seen him int he flesh. Biting the rim of the cardboard coffee cup, Tim grimly trawled through the more comprehensive articles. 

A little over a year ago, the Rawlins family had been brutally killed in a home invasion gone wrong. The decorated DEA agent had returned to his family home to find the bodies of his wife and two children dead. The bodies had remained undiscovered for almost two days. 

All reports indicated Rawlins had suffered a mental collapse following the tragedy and continually accused respected international businessman Sir Edmund Dorrance of having a direct hand in the murders of his family. Sir Dorrance remained sympathetic and forgiving, but was eventually forced to take action and inform the DEA and Rawlins that he would sue for defamation of character if evidence was not brought forward to support the agents claims. 

Rawlins was suspended from duty following an inquiry. Some sources claimed he was deemed unfit for duty after a psychological evaluation. 

Tim sat and stared at the image of a family, three quarters dead, a woman with a wild snarl of curly hair and bright eyes, two children with boundless energy and clear disinterest in staying still long enough to be photographed. All held in frame by Clyde Rawlins, nearly unrecognizable. 

Rawlins had lied to him. Tim sunk into the uncomfortable office chair and gnawed a the cup. Rawlins had lied and did not have the kind of backing Tim and been counting on. Stupid to have counted on anything that he hadn’t ensured was true. Stupid to have taken a stranger at their word. 

He glanced at the screen beside him, all the information being consolidated for transfer, evidence that he had been planning to give to Rawlins. What good would it do now? Dorrance had clearly ensured the man would never be taken seriously. That he was cut off from his colleagues either through their disbelief or fear of being dragged down after him. Rawlins was useless. 

Then again…. The man was clearly determined to see Dorrance go down. Willing to break onto school grounds and lie about his status as an active agent, approach Tim for information. 

Like Tim, really. Willing to do anything to see Dorrance pay. 

Absent mindedly scrubbing the search history and overwriting it, Tim considered his options. Giving the information to a free agent like Rawlins was risky. If the man wasn’t careful in what he did with it, it could come to Dorrances attention and give him the opportunity to cover his tracks. 

But Rawlins wasn’t so different from Tim. It would be rather hypocritical to consider the mans motives and methods worthless when Tim was doing the same thing. 

And Rawlins was still alive after dogging Dorrance for so long. That indicated some measure of intelligence to back up all that drive. 

Decided, Tim repurposed the micro SD card and carefully selected a few profiles. Only American citizens and only those that wouldn’t trigger too much fallout. A few strings for Rawlins to follow. With any luck, the man would have some contacts that could unearth more than Tim. 

Then he only had to suffer through the rest of the days classes. 

Gotham Academy’s library was well stocked, if strictly regulated, and it was perfectly believable that Tim would spend time there. He had preemptively informed the mornings driver that he would be late because he was researching for a paper. It bought him forty minutes. He spent ten of them being highly visible in the library and then slipped out. 

Through the green and there was Rawlins, seated on a bench, elbows on knees and head hanging while a lit cigarette dangled from shaking fingers. Spirals of scratchy bitter smoke wafted on the air and Tim froze. 

His heart flipped and his fingertips went numb and for a moment it felt like cold was biting into his cheeks, and a laughing countdown echoed in his ears. 

Tim sternly forced his feet to move. It was simply sensory associations, a trick of the brain. Cheap cigarette smoke and a memory, nothing more. 

Rawlins didn’t even look like Jason. 

“Good afternoon, agent,” Tim said brightly. 

The man startled, hand vanishing beneath his jacket to the gun in a poorly fitting shoulder holster. He blinked away the blankness in his eyes, mind visibly reeling back from wherever it had gone. Tim recognized the feeling, though his experience with it had never been so obvious. 

Rawlins swallowed, straightened and forced a smile. 

“Kid. You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

Tim shrugged and sat on the bench, directing his attention to his school bag until Rawlins settled down beside him. “I wasn’t sneaking.”

“Well, you were definitely quiet.”

“Thanks.”

Rawlins pursed his lips, eyes flicking up and down before he snorted. “Alright then. Have you thought about what I said?”

“Yes.” 

After another long moment of waiting, Rawlins sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You really aren’t giving me a lot to go on here.” 

Tim leaned back, staring at the sky and knocking his heels on the ground. Hand in his pocket, he rolled the SD card between his fingers and shrugged again.

“You’re the agent, shouldn’t you be the one asking me questions?” 

Rawlins stared over his fingers and snorted. “Alright then. How about you tell me if you’ve seen anything suspicious.”

Tim considered being difficult. It wouldn’t be hard to force the man to grovel, to explicitly ask for every scrap of information. The low burning disappointment that had yet to completely fade certainly seemed inclined towards such an action. For not being the sort of ally he’d presented himself as. For being just another liar. 

But it was easy enough to set aside. They both were liars for the same reason. 

“You might want to check out a nightclub. The Blue Kirin. I think Dorrance has some connection there.” Tim watched carefully for a reaction, interested when there was a flicker of recognition before it was smoothed away. “The driver took me there after school.”

That had Rawlins straightening, sharpening. “What happened? Were you alright?”

Tim smiled. Some of the disappointment eased. At least Rawlins was still civil service minded enough to care about Tims well being. “I was fine.” 

Rawlins was still frowning. His hand shook as he brought up the cigarette, the long, precarious length of ash flaking away with the motion and falling onto his leg, embers smoldering briefly before dying. He didn’t seem to notice. 

“You can’t let them take you there again.”

Interesting. Perhaps there was even more to the club than he had thought, to have inspired such a reaction. 

“Its not like I have a choice about where I go, Mr Rawlins. I’m a child.”

Rawlins blinked. “Fuck. You are.”

Tim snorted and lolled his head along the back of the bench to stare at him, lifting an eyebrow. “Does that come as a surprise?”

“No. Sort of.” Another drag and another sigh. “Was trying not to think about it too hard.”

“Don’t think about it at all. As far as I’m concerned, I’m a confidential informant. I am being kept confidential, right?”

“Of course. I swear, no one else no knows about you. No one else knows about our meeting.”

Of course no one did. Who would Rawlins even tell, renegade and ronin that he was. 

“I believe you.” The card was warm and Tim could barely feel, if not for the sharp edges pressing against the pads of his fingers. He held it out, arm cutting through a ribbon of foul smelling smoke. “This is for you.”

There was a familiar hunger in Rawlins face as he carefully wiped his fingers clean and gently took it. A care that bordered on reverence, but was something much harsher. 

Tim knew what that kind of hope tasted like. 

“What is it?” 

Tim shrugged and checked the time. Five minutes. Pulling his book bag over his shoulder he began walking. “I don’t know. Thats for you to find out. Good luck, Mr Rawlins.”

He barely looked up, eyes on the card in his hand. “Be careful kid.”

“Of course,” Tim said and kept walking. 

The week dragged on. Tim spent his time with care, hoarding every valuable free moment in order to work, to plan. There weren’t many such moments. 

But on thursday Tim received a call on the drive back from school. Dorrance was unexpectedly held up in a meeting and would not be home or several hours. 

He glanced up at the driver. 

New, one he hadn’t seen before, and younger than the others. Probably one of Dorrances gang and low on the hierarchy. A lackey, used to be ordered around and not asking questions. Should be simple enough for Tim to take advantage of that. 

What he should do with the opportunity was return to school for more research time or go to headquarters to investigate. What came out of his mouth was something entirely different. 

“Sir Dorrance is going to be busy for the rest of the day, so I don’t need to return home. Take me to St Agnes.”

The man flicked a frowning glance at him through the rearview mirror and Tim met his eyes with a raised brow. The man changed lanes without a word. 

Jack Drake had been moved to a smaller, private hospital at Dorrances orders and Tim had not seen him since. Almost two months, and now that he finally had the opportunity, Tim found himself rabid for it. The gnawing worry that perhaps his father wasn’t… there, anymore, was suddenly at the forefront and he pinned his hands beneath his arms to hide how they shook. 

The hospital was two stories, and half of the plot was devoted to a well manicured parklike garden, separated from the busy street by high walls topped with artful but ominous black fencing. Senators and movie stars and millionaires had convalesced in its confines and its security was some fo the best in Gotham. 

Not that security was a problem for Tim. His name, his ID and he was ushered down the lavender scented hallways, with their pale green walls and pristine windows. 

Jack Drake was in a private room in the oldest wing of the building. The orderly who had escorted him bustled quickly through the room, turning on the lights and folding down the blankets caging his fathers arms to the bed. And then, with a chipper and well practiced ‘Press this button here if you need anything!’, they left. 

Clutching his bookbag, Tim stared at the only family he had left. 

All the musculature formed on archeological digs and precisely maintained in gyms had sloughed away. The big bones and large frame that Tim had failed to inherit looked misshapen and wrong now. All hollows and curves where there used to be angles and edges. 

He looked like a stranger. He looked like a corpse. 

Tim swallowed and scrubbed at his eyes and didn’t cry. 

“Hey, dad.” Even though there was no one to overhear Tim spoke softly, setting his bag on the visitors chair the orderly had pulled up beside the bed. The heart monitor was soft and steady, barely audible. Benefits of proper funding. “Its been a while.”

Some coma patients claimed to be aware of their surroundings but even if his dad was one of those few, Tim didn’t know what he could say. Whether his presence would matter at all. And what right did he have in any event? It was his fault his father was lying diminished and helpless in some strange dark room an evil man had arranged for him. 

Gingerly, he put his hand on top of the back of his fathers. It was cold, the tan fading, and Tim stared at the differences them for a moment before pulling away. 

He didn’t feel any better and his dad clearly didn’t either. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. 

Footsteps in the hallway had him looking to the door, ready to defend his presence or distract from it, but all the words dried up in his throat when the door opened and a familiar face walked in. 

The man looked up from the clipboard in his hand and the blood drained from his face. 

“Why are you here?” He rasped. His fingertips squeaked over the aluminum of the clipboard, tightening too quickly as he stumbled back.

The ID hanging from one white pocket knocked against the stethoscope draped around his neck. Dr Peter Morgan. Dark hair and wide eyes and neatly trimmed goatee. 

Tim smiled. “Hello, Dr Morgan. How are your kids?”

The clipboard fell to the floor and the man startled back. His eyes darted around the room as he bent to retrieve it, fingers shaking. “Why are you here?”

“I’m visiting my father.” Tim smoothed down the blanket that didn’t need smoothing and quelled rising panic. Now was not the time to be ruled by fear, not when he just learned that his fathers doctor was under the thumb of his mothers murderer. The anger was much more motivating in any event. “I haven’t seen him for a while. How is he?”

Distant birdsong that Tim was fairly sure was recorded and played for the relaxing ambience drifted through the open door. Dr Morgan looked quickly back into the hall, probably trying to find Tims escort. He would have no luck there; the driver was waiting in the parking garage. 

“He’s doing well. No changes.”

“No changes doesn’t seem like ‘doing well’, considering he’s in a coma,” Tim said. The man flinched and did not meet his eyes. 

“It could be worse.”

How dare he, Tim seethed and smiled sharper. “You’re right. He could be dead.”

The man coughed and shuffled into the room. 

Tim watched him as he checked his father vitals, made notes in the file attached to his board and generally avoided looking at Tim. Eventually, with a quick glance at the door and at Tim, he pulled several small rubber topped bottles from a pocket. 

“What are those?”

“Just some medications. Nothing to worry about.”

Lining up three syringes on tray beside the bed, the man filled them from the bottles, measuring carefully and tapping the sides as he held them agains the light to check for air. He grew more at ease as he worked, competent and clearly soothed by routine. Tim stood on the other side of his fathers bed and watched. 

All were medications that he recognized, nothing out of place for someone in his fathers condition. But they should have been administered by a nurse, not a doctor. And certainly not this doctor. 

A formless suspicious drifted through the back of mind. He plucked at it, watching as the doctor swabbed the port of his fathers IV and began administering one syringe after the other, with saline in between each dose and one after the last to flush the line. 

When the man gathered up the used syringes and vials, Tim stepped beside him. The doctor tensed slightly but when he looked down to find Tim smiling back, the tension eased somewhat. 

“You leaving soon?” 

Tim nodded. “Yeah. I shouldn’t stay out too long. Sir Dorrance is expecting me.”

The man licked his lips and gathered up the empty bottles with a click of glass against glass. He rolled them in one hand 

“How… how is that going then? Having him for a guardian?”

Tim hummed. “Its alright. I’m sure my parents knew what they were doing, if they named him as my godfather. It was a surprise though. I didn’t know they were that close.”

It still grated, that Dorrance had orchestrated that acquisition of Tim. He knew that his mother at least would never sign him over to a man like that.

The used syringes were tossed into the red biohazard lockbox by the door but the vials were dropped into the opaque white one beneath it. Locked, but not tamper proof. 

Perfect. 

“Thats good,” Dr Morgan muttered, edging out the door too quickly to be casual. But he paused in the hallway, looking back over his shoulder. He was fairly young, just a faint tracery of grey through his hair, but he seemed much older as he met Tims eyes. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. And finally sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “Get home safe.”

“You too, sir.”

Tim waited until the mans footsteps faded away entirely before rushing to the door. Peering out, he saw no one. Only two cameras, one at either end of the hall. This truly was an out of the way wing. 

He closed the door and opened his bag.

It was the work of seconds to bend a small paper clip from last weeks English assignment and barely any longer to pop the little lock. Flipping the top open, he listened for approaching footsteps before reaching in and scooping out the three vials. There were only a few others alongside them, but more generic and he left them. 

The vials were heavy for how tiny they were. Tim flipped the lid shut of the box, but all his attention were on the vials.

Innocuous. Labels just as Tim was expecting. There was still a faint chill on the rim of one, proof that it had just recently been refrigerated. At first there was nothing he could see that was amiss. But then he spun on vial, holding it against the light, and froze. 

The label was too thick. 

He checked it agains the others, but it was different. Through the other two he could see a glow of the light. Through the third; nothing. The label was too thick. 

His lungs ached and his breathing felt off. Cupping a palm over his mouth, he closed his eyes and swallowed heavily.

No time to panic. Panic would help nothing. It certainly wouldn’t help his dad. 

Control returned quickly and when he set the vial on the tray but eh bed, his hands were steady. 

The paperclip was unbent and he scraped the edge of the label with delicate, even strokes of the rough end of the metal. It wasnt long before the label was peeled up, revealing a second beneath it. 

Some of the ink was smudged or lifted away, but it was still legible. Tim stared at the unfamiliar name of the drug for longer than it took to memorize it, rolling the glass between his fingers and breathing, breathing, breathing. 

He didn’t know what it was and he didn’t know why his father was getting injected with it. But it would be easy enough to find out. 

He took a paper-towel from the dispenser in the closet sized bathroom, wrapped the vial and the peeled label in it, and climbed onto the toilet. The vent above it was small but when Tim unscrewed it to peer inside he was satisfied that it was large enough for the vial. 

Evidence secured in the event that it was needed, Tim gathered up his bag and went out to figure out what it was evidence of. 

He stopped at the door. His dad was still as unmoving and alien as when he’d first entered, but the thought of that vial made him seemed even weaker and paler. Even more vulnerable. 

His face ached from the force of his clenched teeth. His nails dug into the doorframe. 

He turned his back and shut the door. 

Lifting a phone from the pocket of the first phone he encountered, Tim ducked into a restroom stall. In minutes he had found all he needed to know. 

Among its other uses, thiopental was used to induce and maintain medically induced comas. Prolonged used could prove harmful or even fatal if not carefully monitored. Its had mostly been phased out as alternatives were created. 

Tim sat on the closed lid of the toilet and stared at the latch on the door, phone dangling between numb fingers. 

His father was being kept in a coma. Or perhaps had been forced into one in the first place, forced to be this… helpless, fading thing, only alive at Dorrances whim. 

The phone hit door with crack, glass shattering and aluminum door denting. 

Arms wrapped around his middle, Tim curled inward, folding around a hollowness that just continued to grow and grow no matter how much pressure he applied to it. Face pressed into his knees, he bite his tongue, sealed his lips, struggled to keep something ugly and overwhelming from falling out. 

If he started screaming now there was no guarantee he would ever stop. 

But it hurt. It hurt. 

His dad was right there. He wasn’t out of reach, he wasn’t gone like Tim had assumed, had been told. His father was right there in reach, kept away only by chemical compounds and Dorrance. 

Somehow that was so much worse than thinking his father was merely dying and soon to be gone forever. 

Which was what he had thought. 

What Dorrance had made him think. 

Tim panted not his knees, breath hot and wet where it hit the fabric of his pants, so hot compared to how cold he felt, but he forced himself to uncurl. To ignore the gaping hole inside himself. 

He knew now. This was just another loose thread. The thiopental, Dr Morgan, the new hires, Rawlins, the new shipping routes, the restructuring of the Bauer building. All threads he was picking loose, fraying the whole tapestry. 

This was just one more advantage and Tim was going to use it. 

Dinner that evening was even more exhausting than usual. Dorrance had learned of his little excursion and picked picked picked at the subject. 

He was so sorry he hadn’t taken Tim to visit his father himself. He apologized that he was forced to go alone, without support, oh how uncomfortable that must have been. He gently scolded Tim for not telling anyone in advance, what if something had happened? He had been so worried about him. It was such a pity his father was showing no improvement. Don’t be discouraged when it came to the recovery statics involved in cases like his father. He was sure Jack would pull through, of course he would. 

And Tim wasn't to worry, or course. He would take care of him no matter what. 

It was a familiar, exhausting game and Tim knew all the steps by now. Apologizing, capitulating and eventually thanking Dorrance. 

Tim could never quite tell just what Dorrance gained from the game. If he knew whether or not Tim was sincere. He didn’t even know if it was for Dorrances own perverse amusement or whether the man was genuinely trying to wear Tim down to something malleable and grateful and desperate to please. 

Perhaps it was both. 

Either way, Tim knew it wouldn’t work out the way the man expected. 

The next day Tim didn’t go to the computer room at school. Instead, he went to the patio outdoors from the cafeteria and wound through the crowds. 

Tera was easy enough to find. Sitting at the edge of the patio with three other students, she didn’t notice his approach at first. She looked different without the makeup and diamonds and silk. The sleeves of her uniform shirt were rolled up, her skirt standard length over black tights and leather shoes. A delicate gold bracelet with a single parrot charm wrapped one wrist and her nails were painted a deep blue. Without concealer, there was a smattering of blotchy freckles across her face.

She caught his eye, eyebrows rising briefly. Then she smiled and gestured him closer, leaning to whisper to her companions, who looked at him curiously as he walked closer. But by the time he reached the table they were already walking away. 

“Hello, Timothy. How are you?”

Setting his tray down, Tim slipped into the seat across from her and grinned. “I’m great! How are your extra lessons going?”

“Perfectly, as usual.” She watched him thoughtfully as she nipped delicately at an eclair. He blinked innocently back and she smiled, sharp and attentive. “I heard Dorrance is planning to expand Drake Ind tech division.”

“I’d heard that too,” Tim said agreeably. His lunch overlapped hers by only ten minutes and so there was no time for either of them to waste. 

“Not keeping you in the loop?” She asked with faux sympathy. The eclair was set aside in favor of lounging back into her chair, twining a length of hair around her finger. The picture of consecrating commiseration. “Its practically your company anyway, isn’t?”

“It would be,” Tim said, “if my parents were both dead.”

Which was likely the reason his father wasn’t yet. When he met Tera’s gaze steadily, openly, he saw her comprehension as it came. She let out a steady breath and nodded. 

“I see.”

She probably did. They had both been raised to be quick on the uptake. 

“Sir Dorrance is doing his best, I’m sure,” Tim said. His own meal was left alone even as Tera went back to picking at hers. He didn’t think he could choke anything else down, considering he was already doing that with anger and frustration every second of the day. “But it would be nice to be consulted sometimes. I liked knowing what was going on when my parents were in charge, you know?”

“Of course. I am already beginning my internship at my parents company this year. Its only natural for the heirs to be involved, isn’t it?”

“Hmm, agreed.” 

Tera hummed thoughtfully and polished off the pastry. Tim waited. When she huffed and turned sharply back towards him, posture slumping and loosening, act lowered to reveal a hint of genuine interest, he smiled.

“Alright then. What is it you want, exactly?”

Tim leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Look. We both know Dorrance is usurping the positions of our parents. Your families companies stocks have dropped by what, 5% in the past month? Investors are reconsidering their support, Dorrance outbid you on your last supplier.”

Lips thinned in anger, Tera glared over his shoulder. The charm on her wrist swung as she tapped the tabletop. “Your point?”

“My point is, he’s destroying both our inheritances.”

“Not yours. He’s really expanding Drake Ind fast, isn’t he? What do you have to worry about?”

“About it not being Drake Ind by the time he’s done. At the rate he’s going my birth right is going to be consolidated into one of his companies by the time I’m of legal age to take over.” He leaned even further, elbows planted on the tabletop, eyes narrowed. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’d stand for such a thing were you in my shoes?”

As a bluff it was a good one. He didn’t care about inheritance or a legacy of leadership. He only cared for Drake Ind as an extension of his parents. But Tera did not know that and like most future CEO’s she could not imagine wanting anything else. 

Tim could imagine wanting something. He had wanted something else, until he became a murderer, a thief and a liar. What he had wanted became would destroy him now. 

Tera sighed. “No. I wouldn’t stand for it. But I’m not going to help out of the goodness of my heart.”

Success. Tim smiled and eased away.

“I wouldn’t ask that of you anyway. No, I need to gain control of Drake Ind but you, you need him to lose it. Don’t you, Tera Kierny of Kierny Tech?” 

The bell chimed. End of her lunch period and end of their time. Their meeting had already drawn enough attention; to do so again would only invite more, which would invite gossip and rumors which would trickle back to their families. Or in Tims case, to Dorrance. They needed to reach an understanding now.

Tim could proceed with his plans without her. But it would be quicker and easier with her. 

“Alright. I’ll help you with whatever it is your planning for Dorrance. In return, you reel Drake Ind out of my families territory.” Slinging her school bag over her shoulder, she extended her hand, parrot charm sparking in the sunlight like a shard of crystal. Her eyes spared even hotter. “Deal?”

Grinning, Tim reached over the table and shook her hand, a folded sheet of paper passing from his palm to hers. She raised her brows at it, but when she pulled away, it went with her.

“Deal.”

Three weeks later Tim sat in the dark of his bedroom, Dorrances’ presence just down the hall a near tangible weight, and stared at his hands in the dim glow from the window.

Tim had a dozen threads of evidence that led to a dozen places. The imports with their out of the way layovers in small ports were clearly for the drug trade; Tim had managed to tie a grand total of eight new employees of Drake Ind to persons of interest from Interpol. All arranged after his parents attack. 

The restructuring of the Bauer building and the fraudulent discrepancies attached to it. Unplanned before Dorrances takeover of Drake Ind and then pushed through all too quickly. 

But the last shred of evidence he needed? That hadn’t happened until that day. 

Dominic Hardy. Accountant. Rose through the ranks quickly after Dorrance inserted himself into the Drakes lives and business, until he was the supervisory head of the Pharmaceuticals branch of Drake Ind, where upon he dismissed a good half of the staff and relocated most of those remaining. Tellingly, there had been no new hires afterwards and all future documents in regards to Drake Pharmaceuticals had been signed off by Hardy. 

And by Dorrance. 

A quick check had revealed an exorbitant and ever growing increase to Hardy’s various accounts, both legitimate and not, in direct proportion to his rise through the ranks. Interestingly, all of it had ended abruptly shortly after the Drakes were attacked. Even more interestingly, the accounts had been drained. 

Tim had observed enough guilty and cowardly men to know when one was running for his life. 

But what was most interesting, was most promising, was that he was a dead man walking. 

If you knew where to look it was fairly simple to learn whether or not someone was running from a death sentence. And that was exactly what Hardy was doing. 

There was a click at the window and it swung open, near silent. The heavy curtains barely moved even in the stiff breeze that wafted through or the body that slipped between them. 

“Hello Shifu.”

Other than the lack of bruising and blood, she looked no different than when he had last seen her. Ethereally beautiful and dead eyed, her presence a void to his senses. She stalked the perimeter of the room at a lazy pace and barely glanced at him. 

“You bought out by contract on the little rodent,” she said. 

“I did.”

She eyed him for a moment. Nodded. “Resourceful, considering the scrutiny under which you currently live. Where did you get the money from?”

“Nowhere that concerns you, Shifu.”

“Agreed.” Perimeter check complete, she stood beside the window. The curtains and the shadows swallowed her and all Tim could see was the pale outline of one hand. “Curious, that if you had access to such wealth you did not use of it to have your enemy disposed of.”

Instead of answering, Tim went with a question of his own. “Why did you accept a contract on Hardy in the first place? He’s not your usual sort of prey.”

“He is not prey. He is a paycheck.” She moved, a barely perceptible shift that Tim noted more through instinct than sight. “I am after much more elusive prey, here.”

That was surprising. “Here? In Gotham?”

“I am on the hunt for a stranger.”

Something pulled on the back of his mind. Sent a shudder through his hindbrain, a warning. He frowned. “What?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

Tim shook away the feeling. He would think it over later. “Dominic Hardy is still alive, right?”

“For now. Until the last client realizes the contract has been bought out.” 

“And then you’ll go after him again for an even higher rate.” Tim sighed. A few days at most. 

But considering his plans were all but complete, that gave him more than enough time.

“You have a plan.” 

It was a flat statement and Tim snorted. 

“I do. I won’t be shaming anyone this time.”

“See that you do not.”

And then she was gone, a liquid shadow pouring over the windowsill. Tim walked over and closed it, not even bothering to look out to find a trace of her; he knew better. 

Wednesday afternoon Tim walked out of class with a hall pass and a smile and a promise to hurry back. And then kept walking, right out of Gotham Academy. 

In the student parking lot Tim found Tera Kierny’s bright purple corvette in its usual spot and dropped to his knees beside it, asphalt and sticky road dust pressing into his legs. Tucked under the front wheel was a nylon gym bag, just where she had said it would be. 

Collecting it and quickly checking the contents while he crouched between cars, Tim breathed out a sigh. All was accounted for. 

Bag over his shoulder, he climbed the parking lot wall and jogged six blocks up to the library. Six minutes of waiting by the door later and he brushed by two groups exiting the building, and when he passed through he was one wallet, two phones and a baseball hat richer. In the library bathroom he shoved his school blazer into the bottom of the trash can, stripped the cash from the wallet and left it tucked into a toilet paper dispenser for the cleaning staff to find, and used a pilfered phone to call a taxi. 

On his way out the door the phone that Dorrance had given him found a new home in the bag of a harried tourist. 

From the library to his fathers hospital it was forty minutes by car. Gotham Academy would alert Dorrance to his disappearance within two hours. It gave Tim just enough time. 

His dad looked no different. No change, as always. 

Tim sat on the chair by the bed, watching the shallow rise and fall of his dad chest, the flickering green of the heart monitor at the corner of his eye. If all went according to plan, his father would be waking up within the next week. He tried not to think about whether he’d be there to see it. Wished that his mom would be there to do it instead. 

His parents… they had been perfect. Seamless, smooth. They moved together and around each other with such ease, perfectly in synch, perfectly matched. He was sure they had loved each other, but more importantly they had completed each other. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t imagine his dad without her. Couldn’t imagine him alone. 

It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have to imagine much longer. 

“I miss you guys,” he whispered. He didn’t reach out, didn’t want to feel how cold his dads hands were, how heavy and limp. His eyes were hot and swollen, so he closed them. “I’m so sorry, dad. I promise, I’ll…” 

What, he thought bitterly. Fix this? He couldn’t fix anything. 

“I promise I’ll stop this. Just wait a little bit longer, okay? I’ll stop this.”

Outside the hospital, beneath a patio covering dripping with ivy, Tim used a stolen phone to call Rawlins. 

It was time to end things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for emotional manipulation via Dorrance, a panic attack, learning a parent is being kept in a coma, doctors breaking their Hippocratic oath. Uh, children talking business? Still don't know how to do these things....
> 
> Welp. Hopefully by next week this arc will FINALLY be wrapped up and then we can get on to the Batfam interactions ~ Not that those will happen immediately, but, you know. At least we'd be heading back in that direction.
> 
> Comment if inclined and I hope you enjoyed!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs at bottom of chapter.

The condo at the marina was empty when Tim arrived but it didn’t remain that way for long. 

Sitting on the balcony of a unit three doors down, Tim watched as four of Dorrances men ran into the building. 

The room behind him was dark and empty, a fine layer of dust over all surfaces except for the few he had disturbed. The purple bag beside him had a few more additions, now. Supplies stolen from the St Agnes. A change of clothing. A variety of now empty wallets. 

Flipping the guai from end to grip to end, over and over over his hand and forearm, Tim rested the heel of one new boot against the metal railing of the balcony. The weight of the guai was surprisingly familiar even after months of separation. End, grip, end. Sliding smooth over now softened calluses. 

Tucked into an ill fitting sheath in his left boot was the knife he had tried to use the first night against Dorrance. Another, better fitted sheath on his belt held Damians. 

End, grip, end. With a last spin, he brought the wooden down against the railing, the ringing chime of the blow muffled by his foot against the metal and the wind blowing harshly in from the harbor. 

The men left again, dividing into pairs, two hurrying tot eh parking lot and two settling at the front of the building to wait. Apparently Dorrance wanted him found. 

Tucking his guai into the bag, Tim walked back through a strangers rooms and out the back entrance. 

Three buses and an hours walk spread in between and Tim was looking up at the Bauer building. 

The security was most lax in the very small, single level underground parking garage. It had a single entrance and security was deemed tight enough when it was a single guard in the booth by the retracting gate and the camera pointed at it. 

Tim stood on the sidewalk outside, leaning against the wall and waited for the exit of a delivery truck. When it began to pass, he stepped directly in front. 

The brakes shrieked, the vehicles jerked to the side and belatedly the horn blared. Tim directed a wide-eyed look at the windshield and took off running as soon as the inquisitive shouting of the entrance guard came closer. When the driver rolled down the window to direct panicked and angry complaints at the guard, Tim simply ducked around the opposite side and slipped into the garage, blocked from guard, driver and camera by the bulk of the truck. He slipped on a pair of gloves as he ran. 

Inside it smelt of gasoline fumes and cold oil. Cars were tucked in every space but otherwise the space was cavernous and empty. 

Tim jogged along the side of the room, going opposite from the elevator and into the southwest corner, where he crouched beside the steel door to the defunct maintenance room, with a simple tumbler lock. The twisting and prodding and tactile effort of picking its as oddly grounding, and when it clicked open, Tim breathed easier. 

The room was cramped. The monitors and servers that had once controlled the lower half of the building were dead and cold, partially buried behind boxes and various pieces of detritus that had yet to be placed in permanent storage of thrown out. The lights flickered and sputtered as he turned them on, but they steadied as he turned his attention to the computers. 

He was elbow deep inside a terminal when they finished batting up. The room stank of burnt dust and electricity, and the chill was receding. Soon enough it would be warm, if Tim didn’t turn on the air conditioning. 

Wires stripped and crossed and processors rigged together, Tim settled back and opened the bag tucked against his thigh. 

The computer was thick and heavy, the metal casing coated in a rubbery lining. He dragged his fingers over the top for a moment, staring at it. 

The maintenance room hadn’t seen use for months and most of the programming in its system was in compatible with the new one. But some of it was still hardwired into the building, and with the right kind of tech Tim could revert control back.

There were four systems he was confident he could hack in the time he had. Elevators, air conditioning, security cameras, and, most difficult but most important, the lockdown system of the doors on the upper floor. Which were not supposed to exist and were, in fact, distinctly illegal. When triggered, they would lock down and nothing short of the release command or a blast would see them open. 

Not exactly common fair for an office building. 

Five elevators in the building. Four stairwells. The lock down doors were part of both of them. 

Tim didn’t bother second guessing himself. There were many ways in which he plan could go wrong and just as many ways in which people could be hurt. He had tried to account for that, tried to make sure that as few people as possible were caught int he inevitable crossfire. Hopefully it was enough. 

If it wasn't, then he would just have to hope that it had been worth the cost. 

Tim spliced Kierny Tech’s newest, near military grade computer into the control systems and set to work.

Timing was the most important aspect of his plan. At five o’clock most people would be leaving work, and there was a half an hour window between their departure and the arrival of the smaller night shift. Tim needed to begin the lockdown then. 

He got the elevators and the AC out of the way first. It took barely ten minutes and he took his time setting up remote control access and a firewall to keep anyone else from regaining control. Went after the official camera’s next, though Dorrances personal additions remained out of reach.

He turned his attention to the doors. 

It was trickier business. They were not supposed to open unless released, which meant no access from either side. But mechanisms were at the mercy of the systems that controlled them and Tim could manipulate most systems in his sleep. This one was no different. 

Then it was five-fifteen. 

He set the programs to running, input a last few commands and went back into the garage. Lightening the bag considerably, he carefully positioned a of acid atop a springloaded, timed contraption. In an hour it would tip the container and, as long as no one caught it in time, reduce the laptop to melted slag. 

Tim took a last look around the room. He didn’t think he had left any evidence behind. Satisfied, he slipped out the door, relocked it and broke off several picks indie the mechinism. Then he went to the elevator, nodded politely to the few people who were disembarking and rode to the eighth floor. 

Between the seventh and eighth floor Tim stopped the elevator. From the bag he unearthed a balaclava, duct tape, a Kierny Tech cell phone and his guai. The guai tucked into the back of his belt and the phone, synched with the laptop and systems below, was carefully taped to the inside of his forearm. He curled his wrist and bent his elbow, testing the fit of it. It was only mildly cumbersome and he could easily work around it. 

Counting down in his head, he spent the next minute stretching, pulling the restrictive tension from his muscles through sheer force of will. 

Five-thirty. 

With a shrill scream the alarms sounded, the caution lights in the elevator snapped on and the dominoes, carefully erected over months, began to topple.

Tim exited the elevator via the maintenance hatch hidden behind embossed panels in the ceiling. The shaft itself was well designed, with a ladder going up either side with enough circumference to make ascending them comfortable even if the elevator was in operation. Not that this particular elevator would be a problem; from here on out, all elevators would only go downwards. 

The calm, automated voice of the emergency system echoed distantly through the closed doors and down the shaft, directing all personnel in the building in an orderly evacuation. He listened to it as he climbed through the dull orange gloom of the shaft lighting and heard when it cut off mid syllable. The shaft shuddered, lights flickering and electricity whirring briefly out. 

Apparently Dorrance was cutting power even sooner than anticipated. Tim resettled the bag on his shoulder and climbed faster as the generators kicked on and the alarm resumed, though the automated voice did not. 

On the tenth floor he locked his knees around the ladder and tapped on the phone. The elevator door slid silently open and Tim pulled himself through the gap. 

He jogged through the empty hallways, listening for sounds of people over the alarm. So far, it appeared this floor was evacuated and Tim hoped it held true for the ones above. 

There were several maintenance every five floors for the AC and Tim hurried to the one on the tenth. It was tucked into a rarely used storage room and the hatch popped off easily. 

The vents extended up and down, the fan still. Tim ducks this head inside and peered down, tapping at the phone and watching as the emergency panels below snapped shut. The ones above did not move. 

Perfect. 

Another command and the fan began to turn, faster and faster still as it spun over its official capacity. Too long and they would burn out, but Tim only needed a few minutes. 

Tugging the balaclava off his face, he pulled a gas mask from the bag and snapped it quickly into place. He stared into the bag.

It was amazing, really, what could be found in a hospital. 

Then, pulled the last few items from the bag and set to work. 

The lights were bright, the hum of the backup generators purring throughout the building, vibrations carrying up from his heels to his heart. The windows shuddered intermittently with the low fly by’s of helicopters, police and news both. Tim didn’t know why they would bother; the windows were mirrored and there was no way they could see through. 

There was little enough to be seen in any event. 

Stepping over another unconscious pseudo office worker, Tim readjusted his mask. Most of the gas had been filtered out by now but he was unwilling to risk removing it. With his smaller mass, it would take a smaller amount to render him just as harmless and helpless as the woman sprawled on the linoleum, her blazer ridden up and exposing a gun at the small of her back. Her descent had been gentle, her hand still lying limp on the edge of the door jam. The tranquilizing effects of the the gas had done its job well, smothering the panic that would have made them fight against unconsciousness. 

There was a distant sense of satisfaction in seeing them. In using the same method Dorrance had employed against his parents and turning it from brutal to gentle. Whether Dorrance would see the similarity and understand the significance was irrelevant. 

Tim looked at the phone strapped to his forearm, highjacked security feeds playing in tiny boxes. Dozens of them, barely the size of his pinkie nail but just enough to give Tim warning. Give him an advantage. 

Many were dark, streaked with static. Dorrance was finally becoming wise to how he was being hunted. The last clear visual Tim had managed was on the twenty-first floor, ten minutes ago. If he could trust the destruction of the cameras then Dorrance was making his way higher. Three floors left until he reached the roof. 

Tim, on the fourteenth floor, was in no hurry. 

After all, what was waiting for Dorrance was a dead end.

It had taken six months to get to this. Six months and half his soul and a good portion of his sanity. But patience paid and he was coming to collect. 

At that moment Rawlins was receiving all the evidence he could have dreamed of to destroy the man that had torn apart his life. Small comfort for the loss of three lives but sometimes revenge was all the comfort people like them could hope for. 

In a few moments he would get the message regarding the last of the evidence, hard copies of everything, and be racing to Jack Drake hospital room and the packets fixed to the bottom of his bed. All the protection Tim could offer his father without being there in the flesh would be following after Rawlins. 

In a few moments more, the FBI and Interpol would be sending out agents. To Gotham and London and Hong Kong, to all Dorrances largest strongholds and safehouses. By tomorrow the cancer that was Dorrances empire would be torn out by the roots. 

And soon enough Tim would reach Dorrance and one or the other of them would be there to see it all. 

The door to the stairwell chimed softly as Tim activated it, allowing him through. It thudded heavily shut behind him. 

Another camera died with a last glimpse of Dorrance. Tim glanced at it as he ran up the stairs, and decided he no longer had the time to sweep every floor. If there were people other than Dorrance who had somehow evaded the gas, he would just have to hope they had the sense to keep going down. 

On the twentieth floors stairwell, Tim paused at the door. Heart thundering no matter how much he tried to moderate its pace, he slipped the guai into his hands. He closed his eyes for a single weak moment and breathed.

The door opened and he ducked onto the floor. 

There were no alarms here. The shuddering of the circling helicopters was worse, here, and Tim watched as one swooped by the window. By now the police were doubtlessly working their way upwards, but it would take them time. So many doors, all needing to be breached. So many floors, all needing to be cleared. Tim had time.

The twentieth floor was still mostly in disuse. Only the larger conference rooms for the more important meetings and the offices of the CEO and upper management were used. The CEO’s Office was on the southwestern corner, once his fathers and now Dorrances. Tim hadn’t seen the interior for months and a doubted it looked at all like it had when he last had the opportunity. A dull burn of anger flared at the thought. 

Tim doubted Dorrance was still there. Its doors might be even more blast proof, turning the office itself into a saferoom, but Dorrance was not one to lay low while an invasion was in process. He would be out in the halls with Tim, hunting. 

He wondered who would find who first. Dorrance, mostly likely, considering his superior senses. Tim was fine with that. 

He started walking. 

He swept through empty offices and conference rooms, warily skirted the three suited, unconscious men that had served as Dorrances usual retinue. 

His heart continued to pound but it was his feet that were drawing his attention. An annoyance, really, one that he hadn’t noticed until now. The soles were too stiff. They were too new. Another room and another unconscious body but all he could focus on were the boots. 

“Timothy,” Dorrances voice hissed acidly from the side and Tim was down and rolling before the first syllable was fully formed. A good move, considering he still felt the mans fist brush the back of his shoulder. 

Tim kept his momentum going and rolled further, under a table that cracked and rattled with a blow before he was even out the other side. 

He popped to his feet and spun, guai up and parallel to his forearms, braced for the next blow. His feet were suddenly the furthest thing from his mind. 

Dorrance was still on the other side of the collapsed conference table, blind eyes staring unerringly at Tim. A toothy, vicious smile stretched his face, wider than any Tim had seen outside the Joker himself. His white suit was rumpled, the jacket missing and waistcoat half buttoned. There was no sign of his cane. 

“Well, hello Timothy. I must admit I’m surprised to find you here.”

“Hello, sir.” Tim crouched into a deeper stance. Even with a table and several yard between them, he knew Dorrance would prove fast enough they would prove not to ban obstacles at all. 

Dorrance tilted his head, listening. Tim didn’t bother doing the same; he doubted he would hear what Dorrance did. 

“I’ll admit, I was expecting something from you at some point. But not this.”

“That was the point,” Tim said. 

Dorrances hand flexed and Time watched as the smile dropped away. The easy upright stance shifted to something predatory and, for the first time since entering the building, Tim felt a shock of fear crawl up his spine.

“I had such plans for you, my boy.”

Tim couldn’t hold back the grimace at that. 

“I took you in. I was going to make something of you.”

“You killed my mother!” Tim snarled and launched himself over the table. 

The first strike was knocked aside so heavily it took Tim right along with it. The grip twisted in his hand, dragging on the glove as it was knocked askew, exposing his forearm. He twitched out of the way of Dorrances return blow, and the next and the next. 

Dorrance was fast, faster than Tim had expected. His sheer mass would have given his blows enough weight to flatten Tim but with the strength behind it, he knew that if even one connected, it would be devastating. 

He was skilled too. Tim watched for patterns, for a break in the mans stance, but it frustratingly similar to fighting Shiva. There were no weaknesses. The man was not nearly so technically perfect in form and followthrough, his style wilder, but that made no diffference. 

Tim gritted his teeth, barely avoiding another blow. The mans hands were huge, boulder-like as they advanced towards him and for a moment all he could remember was the sound they had made as it turned Mrs Davenports body into pulp. Wet and heavy and nauseating. 

He also remembered his father, even more helpless than Mrs Davenport. He wouldn’t even be able to see a strike coming. 

The thought of being hit by Dorrance was more terrifying than being hit by Shiva, but he had learned by now that he was not skilled enough or fast enough to land a blow without sacrifice. When the next strike came, he leaned towards it.

It barely grazed his shoulder but even that had him spinning sideways. It was all the better to bring his guai spinning out, around and into Dorrances ribs with a solid, muffled thud. 

The man did not so much as flinch and Tim back hurriedly away.

“It seems those fools were right. You are well trained.”

Tim swallowed heavily but made his voice firm. “You mean the ones you hired to kidnap me?”

Dorrance barked a laugh. “A poor decision on my part. I should have gone directly with eliminating your parents entirely. After all, you would hardly have been effective leverage against them, would you Timothy?”

Tim attacked with snarl. 

Every strike was met and halted entirely. Not turned aside, not used against him. But stopped, as easily as Tim would stop a paper bag. He pretended the frustration of that was the reason he felt bile at the back of his throat. 

Of course his parents wouldn’t let Tim be leverage against them. That was the logical thing to do. They had told him so and he had never expected otherwise. 

“Come now,” Dorrance said as he snuffed out another attack. “There is no need to fight. I’ll forgive you, my boy, and we can return to how it was. You’ve proven yourself beyond all my expectations.”

“I’d literally rather die,” Tim said honestly. 

“Very well,” Dorrance said agreeably and Tim was abruptly against the wall, breath knocked out and feet off the floor, hanging from Dorrances hand wrapped around his arm. 

Tim swung his guai, the one in his trapped hand pivoting around in his palm towards Dorrances face and the his free hand jabbing the front end of his other guai into Dorrances wrist joint. 

He fell and was running even before he pulled in air. 

Clearly, he had to rethink his approach. Dorrance was even more skilled than anticipated and if Tim stood any hope of killing him he would have to resort to trickery. That was perfectly fine with him. 

Tim raced around a corner, tapping frantically at the phone. It was difficult to raise his arm and it wobbled weakly, jostled by his run. His upper arm ached in a numb sort of way. Crushed by Dorrances grip, mostly likely, and even if the bone was whole the muscles were shot. He couldn’t afford to be grabbed again. 

Not that Dorrance would have such an easy time of it now, he thought viciously, and dragged his thumb over the screen. 

The discreet sound system throughout the twentieth floor shrieked, the sound ululating and layered and changing pitch randomly. Even Tim was knocked off balance by the sound and if the barely audible roar behind him were any indication, Dorrance was even more affected. 

Tim grinned and ducked into a corner office.

This time when Dorrance barreled through the door and Tim spun to put momentum behind the upper sweep of the guai, Dorrance missed. The wood connected with a wet crack.

His whole back hurt. The pain writhed and twisted, not settling or leveling, constantly shifting between agony and ache. His left ear was ringing too loudly to serve any purpose beyond disorienting him. His arm spasmed and twitched where Dorrance had gripped it, but he kept the guai solidly in his hand. 

However, the blood sheeting down Dorrances face was viciously satisfying. 

The window of the office shuddered as a police helicopter flew past. 

“I’ll twist your little head off,” Dorrance hissed and leapt forward again. 

Tim scrambled to knock the mans fist off course with his one good arm, the body of the guai forced hard against his forearm. He grunted, going with the impact, too strong to turn aside completely. He felt the force of it down to his bones. 

Dorrances leg swept towards him from the right and he rolled beneath it, jabbing upwards into the back of the mans thigh with the front end of the guai and twisting with all his strength. Dorrance snarled and fell back.

Launching forward, Tim sprinted from the office and into the hall, lungs burning as he ran. He couldn’t hear Dorrance behind him but knew better than to think he wasn’t. When he looked over his shoulder before turning a corner, he saw the man racing after him, blind eyes wild and blood dripping onto the carpet. 

Tim couldn’t keep running forever. He might be able to evade Dorrance, but eventually the twentieth floor would be breached and both of them would be unable to continue the chase. By now Tim had no doubt there was a warrant for Dorrance’s arrest and if he wanted to kill the man, it would have to be here and now. 

The CEO’s office door came into view, the placard gold and new and no longer displaying his fathers name. He shoved through the door, ran by the unfamiliar secretary desk and potted palms and into the large corner office. 

Floor to ceiling walls of glass showed that it was fully dark. The buildings around them glowed with light, and he could make out the silhouettes of small crowds behind the panes, watching the Bauer building. Another night of chaos in Gotham, this time taking over a whole building. 

The speakers continued to wail. 

Dorrance thundered into the room and Tim leapt over the familiar antique desk, so familiar, and barely managed to avoid Dorrance’s grasping hand. He knocked it aside, the sound of the guai against fingers nauseating and exhilarating, made more so when Dorrance snarled in pain. 

Dorrance roared and lingered over the desk. Tim slid beneath and open hand strike, the edge of it catching his gas mask and pulling it tight over the bridge of his nose for an eyewatering second. Dorrances following kick forced him further back and he rolled to the other side of the room, coming up in a crouch, guai crossed and braced for a blow. It took a fraction of a second too long to realize Dorrance had not followed. 

The man had no sight, could no longer smell and his hearing was impaired, yet despite that, when he heaved the desk towards Tims position it was well aimed. 

Tim barely managed to to avoid being crushed entirely, but it was at the cost of throwing himself into the corner. The jarring crack of the desk against the glass vibrated through his back, the sound of the glass breaking audible even over the speakers. 

Dorrance was there before the warped remnants of the desk even settled onto the carpet. 

Tim struggled, guai swinging, but the man was too close too quickly for him to target a weak spot. And when one massive hand closed around his neck it didn’t matter. 

The grip was tight and suffocating, and tendons strained as Dorrance lifted him to eye level. His weakened arm could not wield the guai effectively and his other was grabbed by Dorrance and pinned against the glass. 

“I should have killed you with your mother, you little bastard,” Dorrance hissed. His hand did not close tighter and Tim wondered at it. The mans grip strength alone would be enough to break his neck. “She assumed I could be excised from their little empire, that I could be so easily uprooted. As though a threat of being accused of embezzlement would be enough.”

Tims mind spun, dull with pain and desperation for air, but he listened. A monologue would be all he would get as a reason, as an explanation and he would take it. 

“She thought she could use me and you thought you could defeat me. That kind of hubris must be hereditary.” Dorrance sneered and finally, incrementally, his grip tightened. “You’ll die just like your bitch of a mother. Choking.”

Shiva had taught Tim how to kill a man, but in that moment, it was Steph that filled his mind. Her laughing announcement that there was only one sure way to take a man down. ‘Feels nasty on your foot, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Want a demonstration?’

Tim jerked his leg up with as much force as his discordant nervous system would allow and felt Dorrance’s strength seep away. 

Knocking away the mans arm, Tim scrambled over his hunched body and, as soon as his feet touched the carpet, brought the extended point of guai back along with his elbow, sinking it into the soft flesh over a kidney, once and twice and then again. 

Dorrance dropped the rest of the way to the floor. 

Breathing hard and painful, Tim spun to face him, guai raised and angled for a killing blow to back of Dorrance’s unprotected neck.

This wasn’t like his first attempt. Intellectually, he knew that if he had miraculously succeeded in killing the man the night of his parents attack, it would probably have been considered manslaughter. Still murder, but…

With the Joker, he had barely had the time to consider consequences or morality. This time he’d thought of every detail. Had planned every step. Had imagined it in a thousand separate ways, over and over, the last thought before his slept and the first thought when he woke and the only thought throughout the day. Imagined every blow and ever fleck of blood.

He’d seen it in his head so many times and only felt glad. 

Now, in reality, he didn’t feel that way at all. 

“What are you waiting for?” 

Shiva’s voice made him twitch, tense, but he did not look away from the gasping, red face man in front of him. Hunched and weak and finally small. So much smaller than Tim and ever seen him. 

“Shifu. What— why are you here?” He realized it was quiet. His ears rang with the silence. 

“Finish it.”

the guai hung steady and damningly stationary. The stretch of skin over vertebrae seemed obscene, almost, and Tim knew what it would feel like. How the crunch would carry through wood and into his skin. 

He was murderer and a thief and a liar, but, with his heart falling into the hollow of his stomach, Tim realized he couldn’t be an executioner. 

The guai fell down beside his leg, his fingers limp around the grip. His whole face burned, his throat ached and he was so angry. So angry, that he couldn’t do it. Even with the vivid memory of his mother dirty and desperate and dead on the ground, his father draining away to nothing in a cold room alone, he couldn’t do it. 

And he didn’t even know why. 

“The police are coming,” he said dully. “You said my mother threatened to expose you? Well, consider me carrying it through.” He stepped back. “Look like your little empire is the one that’s toppling, now.”

He turned around. Shiva stood across the room, black leather jacket and red silk shirt. Venomous and cold and disgusted as she looked at him. 

He opened his mouth. To apologize, perhaps, or to defend his decision, but her eyes flickered and he spun around. Not quickly enough to avoid Dorrance’s grasp. 

This time when his hand closed around Tim, he did squeeze with all his strength. 

Wrenching, wet sounds that were more felt than heard made him scream. The pain didn’t even register as anything beyond… white. White and all encompassing. 

He snapped his guai out, knocking aside a blur of movement from the side, but the hand around his arm twisted and everything fuzzed out to grey. 

When he could think again, he was on the floor, one hand empty, gas mask ripped from his face. 

Tim curled around his arm and tried to breath. The world was all white noise and he could barely see, could barely make out the blur of Shiva and Dorrance as they fought in front of the fractured window. Some stupid part of him bitterly wished he could make out the details better, considering they were both masters in their own right and such a battle would be pricelessly beneficial to witness. The more intelligent part was trying to force his body to roll further away and out of the crossfire. 

Then, between one blink and the next, Dorrance was gone. The window as well, the safety-glass caved outwards like a crater, spiderweb fine cracks running from casing to casing like lacework. 

Shiva stood framed by the tattered edges of the whole, long ink black hair snapping in the wind that rushed through. All of her was straight, strong lines, as immovable as a mountain peak and as dangerously jagged. 

When she turned around Tim met her blank black stare with the unthinking bravery of the exhausted.

“Pathetic,” she said. She stalked towards him, sweeping up his lost guai in one hand as she went, and Tim curled tighter with a muted sense of dread. A weapon lost was an opponent armed… “You had your revenge at your fingertips and you spat upon it.”

“I couldn’t…” Tim slurred, watching as she slid the guai down the back of her jacket. He tried to hold onto to the one that remained, but she snatched it neatly out of his hand. As easily as if he were an untrained child, and he turned his eyes away with a sick feeling in his chest. 

“Clearly you could not,” she said and stooped, sweeping him up as easily and efficiently as she had the guai. His whole body recoiled from the pain the movement sparked, and when the ringing in his ears and the static over his eyes faded again, they were halfway through the twentieth floor and at the elevator.

“‘m sorry,” Tim mumbled. The body he was pressed against was cold, the single arm she was using to pin him against her hard and painful against all his broken bones and bruises. She smelled like roses and weapons oil and amber. A strangely warm scent. 

“Shameful.”

Tears burned that back of his eyes. Tim closed them. 

He didn’t know what he felt. He certainly felt shame, but he couldn’t understand why. He didn’t know why.

Was it because he had failed? Because he had been cowardly enough that he balked at ending Dorrance's life with his own hands, when he had already ended Jokers via anothers? Was it because he knew, he absolutely knew that his mother would be just as disappointed in him as his Shifu? It wasn’t even a failure. He could easily had ended the man with a single blow, when he was helpless and beaten before him, but he had willfully turned away.

He had chosen not to.

He really had shamed them. 

Laughing breathlessly, he tucked his face into the slick leather of her jacket as, with the distant boom of a door being breached, they dropped down the elevator shaft. 

Sitting in a hospital bed, paper thin sheets and paper thin pajamas as cold as they were white, Tim stared at the muted TV afixed to the wall. 

Sir Edmund Dorrance was currently in intensive care after near fatal fall from the Bauer building. He was not expected to live out the night. Some sources speculated it was an attack by the same unknown persons who had overtaken the building. Others thought it was suicide, in order to avoid prosecution. 

FBI, DEA, Interpol and Gotham PD were working together to dismantle Dorrance’s vast criminal enterprises. Associates were expressing shock that such a seemingly upstanding gentleman had been a mere criminal.

A star witness, former chief accountant Hardy, had been taken into protective custody from Metropolis that evening.

Tim picked at the gray fibers of his cast. His forearm was broken in two places, his shoulder severely dislocated. The forcefully cheery, excruciatingly gentle nurse that he helped set it had brushed her fingers around the edges of the hand shaped bruising, her eyes sad even as her mouth smiled. She had brightly informed him that he'd have to do some physical therapy, but that he would be fine, just fine honey.

Tim had nodded and stayed quiet.

Rawlins had visited him several hours earlier. Had been stayed through his interviews with the FBI and GPD, with the soft spoken child advocate. Had told him, quietly, that his father had been moved to another hospital and his new doctor was going to begin trying to wake him. 

Rawlins had looked little better than Tim. Drawn and haggard and shellshocked, eyes a little glassy. His whole body moved jerkily. Like all the strings of tension that had been holding him together had been cut. 

“Its over,” he’d said quietly, staring at his cigarette stained fingers. “Its over.”

He’d laughed. It was a bitter, unhappy sound. 

Tim could understand. 

He thought…. He thought it would be easier, now. That it wouldn’t hurt, or that the hurt would at least be different. But it was the same. He didn't feel relieved at all. Didn’t feel…. anything really. 

He wished his dad would wake up. He wished he could sleep. He wished everything would stop, for a moment, and that he could stop with it. But the hours slid slowly by and the world kept moving. 

So he sat and he stared at the TV and waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for graphic violence and broken bones. 
> 
> This. This thing. It is, without a doubt, my least favorite chapter. It was like uprooting a tree with my bare hands, I hated it. But the arc is done! Hooray, at last, hallelujah!
> 
> I am going to try and take a little break. I say try, because I really like the routine of updating every sunday. Its nice and makes me happy. But, I should get a nice buffer of chapters soooo.... well, if I don't update next sunday, its because I'm trying to do the responsible thing. 
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed everything so far! Comment if you are so inclined, and have a good week


	19. Chapter 19 : Arc 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs at bottom of chapter

There were thirteen ceiling panels in the room. Four of them were cut in half to fit the space, and one in the corner was waterstained and a misshapen, grime coated vent sat one panel in above the door. 

Tim sat propped against the wall at the head of his lumpy bed and stared at the ceiling as he flipped a plastic table knife end to end. 

They had been in a the safe house for five weeks. 

It was a single story, cramped bungalow from the early fifties on the very distant fringes of Gotham. It sat on a half acre that was covered by overgrown or half dead grass with neglected hedges that were all but impenetrable. The windows were small and locked, alarmed twice over and the two bedrooms were dark and smelled faintly of mold. 

Tim knew every inch of the place from tiny, three foot high attic space to leaking basement. 

He had spent the first two weeks sleeping. He was pretty sure he had never slept through so many consecutive hours in his life, and more than once the agent on duty had dragged him out of bed to hydrate and eat and bathe. They’d all sort of blended together after a point, and so did their expressions of concern or pity or exasperation. 

The only one that was distinct was Rawlins. 

On the second week he’d woken up in the middle of the night to find the man dozing in an armchair that had obviously been dragged in from the living room. He’s been curled in awkwardly, hands pulled back into the arms of his jacket and one foot planted on the seat cushions. 

Tim had stared at him for a long time, feeling blurry and numb, before Rawlins snorted himself awake. 

There were no computers in the house, or a TV and Tim had not been told much of anything. Not that he’d asked about anything other than his dad. He didn’t even know at the time whether Rawlins had been reinstated or was being credited at all. The only thing he cared about was his dad, and that had been the first thing he asked. 

“He woke up today,” Rawlins said. 

And, like switched had been flipped, Tim woke up too. 

All the agents that had complained about his hibernation found out there was far more to complain about when he was awake. 

When his dad was moved to the safehouse, Tim had been bouncing off the walls all day. He’d demanded new pillows for his fathers room (equipped with a hospital bed, but Tim was determined not to let that stop him) and when he was refused had stolen an agents phone and ordered a delivery from the nearest shop. Along with better sheets and blankets and a bathrobe. 

He’d let the irate agent curse at him without blinking, too busy sitting in the back of the couch with his feet on the windowsill and his nose all but pressed to the glass. 

He had felt somehow more nervous for his fathers arrival than he had when entering Dorrances lair. 

When the van with his father rolled into the driveway, he had ducked past the agent and out the door before he could even be told to stop. 

His father was accompanied by two nurses and two agents and was even more frail looking in the full light of day. The dark crescents under his eyes and the sunken skin of his face made him seem skeletal. Brittle, almost. But it was the blankness of his eyes that had Tim pulling back from the hug he had been about to deliver. 

His father had barely glanced at him. 

While the nurses went about arranging him in a wheelchair and collecting boxes of medical supplies form the van, Tim hid his treacherously reaching hands in his pockets and shuffled in place. 

“Hi dad.”

His dad had glanced at him. Once sweep, down, partially back up, and then away. He hadn’t said anything.

As he was wheeled inside, one the nurse, loaded down with medical bags and boxes, had taken a look at whatever was one his face and stopped her headlong dash up the driveway to hover over him. Maneuvering around to free a hand that she really couldn’t spare, she rubbed his shoulder. 

“Its okay, honey. He’s really tired right now, give him a little while, alright?”

Tim had nodded woodenly, and kept nodding until the static was knocked out of his head. Then he’d smiled charmingly, taken half the equipment and given the woman a tour of the house. And if he wheedled out more medical information about his dads condition from her than she was probably allowed to divulge, well. No one had stopped him. 

He’d waited but his dad had never become rested enough, it seemed. 

He went in to sit with him everyday. Sometimes he’d park himself in the corner with some self study material, sometimes he’d try to make conversation. But his dad rarely responded beyond the few times he’d startled briefly and stared at Tim like he was a stranger. Or worse, someone heartbreakingly familiar. 

So here Tim sat, in semi-self imposed insolation. His dad and one of the agents was a watching a game in TV and Tim could hear the enthusiastic announcers voice drifting down the hall. He’d hovered behind the couch for a while, waiting to see if he would be noticed, before giving up for the day and returning to his room. 

His arm ached. The cast had come off two days ago. His skin was even whiter than normal and tender, feeling both abnormally light without the cast and yet heavy from the weeks of stillness. 

The doctor had already arranged for his fathers physical therapist to take on Tim and promised that Tim would regain full mobility. Clean breaks, he said, smile stiff as he held the x-rays. He was a private practice doctor and not a pediatrician, who had probably never treated the aftermath of violence. He had been competent at least. 

Tim flexed his wrist and tried not to flinch. 

“Knock knock,” came a monotone drawl from the cracked open door. The agents tended to get antsy about minors closing doors.

Tim dropped off the edge of the bed and obediently walked over to open it the rest of the way. 

Rawlins smiled at him, one hand hooked in a front pocket and the other holding a paper bag. Tims eyes zeroed in on it as the sweet scent of salty grease and starch wafted into his face. 

“Hey kid.” Rawlins shook the bag. “Delivery.”

Tim frowned. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

Rawlins snorted. “I helped stock the pantry. Theres only so much canned ravioli and cold sandwiches a person can stand.” With another, gentler shake of the bag, he grinned. “Its still warm.”

Tim stepped back and gestured the man in. 

They sat on the bed, it being the only place there was to sit, and Tim tried not to look as blissful as he felt at the first bite of a truly extravagantly cheesy burger. He’d never had an opportunity to eat much of Gothams junk cuisine before meeting Steph, but she’d made sure to educate him properly on it. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

“So, how’re you holding up kid?”

Tim shrugged. “Its boring.”

Rawlins looked over the room, from the half full laundry basket by the unused closet to the splintering bookshelf stuffed with textbooks, study guides and the occasional medical text. Spiral bound notebooks sat on top, most of them already full. 

It painted a fairly bleak picture, but Tim wasn’t going to complain.

“I can imagine.”

The raucous sound of a goal drifted from the living room, applause and screaming and a polished announcer faking enthusiasm. Tim swallowed down the last of burger and set in on the fries. 

“Why are you here?” He asked bluntly. 

Rawlins winced and rubbed a hand over his face. An evasive tactic as much as a genuine reaction. He obviously had something to say and no desire to get on with it. 

“Can’t get much past you.” He chuckled with thin humor into his hand. 

“Its not like you’d come here just for kicks. If you were, that would just be sad.”

Rawlins grunted. “True. And you’re right, I did come here for a reason.”

Tim looked away from the fries and blinked expectantly. 

“I’m going to the west coast. Got a job offer in the Los Angelos office, to lead a team of my own.” He looked at the window, with its blinds down and dusty and crumpled. His hand was rubbing absently over his jaw, clean shaven for once. “I gotta admit something, kid. You won’t like it.”

Ah. “That you weren’t an active agents when you talked to me?” 

Startled, Rawlins gaped at him. Tim decided not to roll his eyes. 

“I did have access to the internet, you know. There was a lot of information about you.”

Swallowing heavily, Rawlins looked away, jaw clenching. Probably remembering just what had made him so newsworthy in the first place, and Tim abruptly regretted saying anything. 

“I guess so.” Shaking off the mood, Rawlins lifted an eyebrow. “If you knew, why did you work with me? Why did you give me… all that.”

Tim considered lying. It might even have been the best option. But he was tired of lying. Tired of misdirection and how much effort went into keeping all his stories coherent. He was just… tired. He dug in the bottom got the bag for MIA fries and mumbled “You deserved the same chance you were giving me. To stop Dorrance.”

The crinkling of paper and the staticky blare of TV speakers. 

“I’m gonna miss you, kid.”

Tim scoffed. “You don’t even know me.”

“But what little I do, I’m going to miss,” Rawlins insisted with skin crawling sincerity. Tim pretended his face wasn’t hot and his eyes weren’t burning. 

Thankfully, Rawlins moved on. 

“Anyway. Thought I should tell you a few things in person.” When Tim glanced back up, Rawlins made himself comfortable on the end of the bed. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but Dorrance is being kept in a prison hospital for now. Interpol is fighting for extradition to several different countries. Even some rumors of prosecution for war crimes when he was a mercenary are floating around. He’s still unresponsive though, and the doctors say he won’t be fit to travel for a long time yet. Either way, he’s not going to be a threat to you.”

The mans eyes skated over Tim’s arm; the first time he’d seen Tim in the hospital Tim had been worried he’d faint. He had gone pale so quickly.

He decided not to dwell on whether it was really Tim himself the man was seeing in that moment. 

“Most of his people in Gotham are in custody or on the run.” Rawlins huffed a faintly amused sound out of his nose pinched the bridge of it. “Seems Batman came back from wherever he was and started cleaning up the place, with a new side-kid too.”

Tim was the one to almost faint this time and his whole inner body swooped with a burst of adrenaline.

It was impossible. Bruce Wayne was still all but a cripple and scheduled for several more surgeries. Tim had not had the time to spend keeping track of the man, but he did know that bullets to the pelvis and femur were not the sort of injuries someone could walk off. Even if that someone was Batman. 

Then again, maybe that had all been a cover story? Faking a debilitating injury was certainly a brilliant way to avoid suspicion of being a vigilante with a track record of defenestration. 

And a new sidekick. A new Robin. 

Tim had a feeling he knew who it might be. 

“Batman?” He repeated as casually as possible. If Rawlins rolling eyes were any indication, his interest was not as well masked as intended.

“Batman,” he confirmed. He sounded about as exasperated as Commissioner Gordon those rare times Tim and been close enough to eavesdrop. “I’m not saying all you east coast people are insane, but we don’t have grown men dressed up as bats leaping off of buildings.”

“Well, you also don’t have Gotham, so…”

“Its still one thing I’m not going to miss.”

Tim didn’t really get that, but to each their own, he supposed. 

Rawlins sighed and stretched, back popping and bed growing beneath him. They both froze, looking distrustfully at the mattress. When it failed to collapse beneath them, Rawlins carefully lowered his arms. 

“So. Have you spoken to the agents recently?”

Tim shook his head. Other than O’Brian, one of the older and bordering on retirement agents, he avoided them when he could. On the whole, their pity had lasted only as long as Tim’s patience. And that had only lasted as long as it took for his dad to be moved in. 

“Of course not,” Rawlins muttered. “Its been determined that you and your father are no longer under threat, so you’ll be released from protective custody in a week. Maybe a little more.”

Blinking, Tim wadded up the paper bag, clenching it and letting the wrinkles and grooves sooth the sudden disorientation. 

He knew that they wouldn’t be staying in the house forever. It he had longingly imagined when he and his father could move into a place of their own, somewhere Tim could make safe and comfortable. He should have been working towards it already. Why hadn’t he been preparing already?

“Oh.”

Rawlins watched him intently. “Your father was supposed to be told already.”

Shrugging, Tim threw the balled up paper over the mans head and into the wastebasket by the bookshelf. “They probably did. He just didn’t get around tot telling me yet, probably.”

His mind was already turning a thousand rotations a minute, inspecting and discarding options. The only property in Gotham they still own outright was the Marina condo and it was hardly handicap accessible. What little property they own elsewhere had the same issues, as well as being… not Gotham. 

Was it selfish, not to consider them longer?

There were places for rent, of course, but it was difficult to find something on such short notice that his father would find suitable. And much of their assets were tied up, accounts suspended during the investigations, and Tim would have to make what they did have access to stretch. No one could know when the accounts would be unfrozen and whether when they were, if there would be much left. 

Drake Ind stocks were plummeting. Much of the company would have to be sold off and pared down once again, and it was anyones guess whether it would survive this time. 

“Are you okay, Tim?”

Tim blinked. He was halfway across the room, notebook open and pencil moving feverishly. Rawlins was staring even more intently and Tim flushed. 

“Ah, yes. I’m fine, thank you.”

Rawlins did not appear soothed. “Do you have somewhere to move after this?”

“Of course we do,” Tim said breezily. He smiled a company smile and laughed. “Thank you for the concern, though.”

After a long moment of observation, Rawlins sighed and stood, bed groaning. This time neither of them paid it any mind. He fished around in his coat pocket and offered a slip of slightly tatter edged cardstock.

“Here. My phone number, emails.” His face was serious, bordering on grim, and the furrow of his brows made the hints of grey in his hair more apparent, somehow. “If you need anything, you contact me. Alright? You contact me and I’ll help you.”

Tim nodded, smiled and pocketed the paper. Internally he was already discarding it. What good could possibly come from asking for help? 

“You call me when you move out of here, okay?”

Tim shrugged. “If you really want me to, sure.”

“I do.” Rawlins met his eyes and swept over his smile. Something complicated, something like regret, passed over his face. “You be careful, kid.”

“You too, agent Rawlins.”

He pulled the door almost shut after him as he left. Tim didn’t wait until his shadow peeled away before climbing back onto the bed and started to strategize. He had a lot to do in the next week.

(Seven months later)

By now Tim was used to a somewhat transitory lifestyle. Ten homes in thirteen years would do that to a person, he supposed. They blended together, all those different rooms and walls and windows. Given a reason, he would have been able to recall each one with perfect clarity, right down to the wiring running through the walls, but he had not had a reason yet. 

The thing that struck him most about the current apartment was the carpet. Ancient, scratchy, balding and so thin in some places he could feel the cheap, age brittled plywood beneath. It had been bleached and washed so often it was a muddled grayish beige and the edges were curling up in the high traffic areas. 

He didn't mind. It had a microwave, a coffee-maker and internet access. Everything else was either negotiable or flat-out unnecessary. And it was handicap accessible which was really the only prerequisite that mattered. 

Rolling off the couch that served as bed, office and desk, Tim scratched the frigid bottoms of his feet against he carpet in search of friction as he blearily made his way to the kitchen. As he passed the first bedroom he could hear his father inside, already awake or perhaps still awake, never having slept at all. He could smell vomit and alcohol wafting through the cracked door and sighed. 

Coffee first. 

He threw the dregs of last nights pot into the microwave and proceeded to crack eggs into a stained tupperware dish, blinking sleepily as he whisked them into a frothy mess. There were only three things Tim could reliably cook without either poisoning a body or returning to his days as an arsonist and that was plain scrambled eggs, spaghetti and rice. Truthfully, the rice was still a tossup. 

The microwave groaned, pinged and Tim snagged the pot on his way to the stove, tupperware of egg in one hand and bringing the pot straight to his mouth with the other. 

Using a nonstick skillet that was no longer living up to its name, no butter and only the slightest bit of salt, he cooked the eggs. One foot lazily scratched the back of the opposite calf as he mentally ran through the days agenda. 

Shopping was a must. There was a solitary egg in the refrigerator, a couple of frozen meals in the freezer, a wide variety of condiments that were likely past their expiration date that he would nevertheless allow to continue lurking, and an army of beer, both cans and bottles, with vodka taking up space in the freezer and other half full bottles of liquor in the lower cabinets. 

Sometimes he considered purging the apartment of them. The thought never lasted longer than it took for a psychosomatic twitch of his fingers. 

After shopping he needed to swing by the university, pick up cash for the last few assignments and drop off the finished products. It would have been so much easier if he still had Jeremy as a liaison, but Tim was forced to act as his own errand boy now that the man had moved on to better and brighter things. 

And then the tailors. 

Draining the last drops from the pot and chewing on the soggy grounds, he tipped the eggs into a bowl, squirted a layer of hot ketchup on the top and jogged back up the short hall. 

Jack Drake slouched into the pillows behind him and stared blankly at the muted flatscreen affixed to the wall directly in front of him. The sheets and blankets were dropped onto the floor, a bottle of whiskey peering out from the soggy mound, and a trio of cans scraped across the floor as Tim pushed the door open. the tacky remains of beer on the back of the door was evidence of his fathers good aim and strong arm. The wheelchair Tim had overhauled and recalibrated was sitting plugged into an outlet, blessedly unharmed. 

“Hey Dad. Breakfast.”

Jack flicked a quick, disinterested, bloodshot glance to him and grunted before turning back to the television. 

Tim slid the bowl onto the nightstand, the plastic sticking on the tacky, ancient varnish. The pitcher of water was still half full, the glass beside it unused. Tim filled it and set it beside the bowl within easy reach. He wished there was still a bedside lamp, the overhead dome light dim and yellow, no sunlight able to penetrate the blackout curtains. In the gloom the food looked like congealing yellowish brain matter.

“You’ve got PT today. Tanya will be over soon to drive you and then she’ll stay the rest of the day. I’ll be gone tonight, so if you wanted you could ask her to stay the night?”

“I don’t feel like going,” Jack rasped. 

This was routine enough that Tim didn't even need to consciously pick the words to say as he bundled up the vomit sodden bed linens and dumped them in the overflowing laundry basket. “Sorry, Dad. I wish you didn't have to, but if you miss another appointment they’ll cease services.”

Like the last five clinics had done. There were only so many no shows a business could take before it started impacting the profits. 

“There’s a new therapist too. Maybe you’ll like this one better?”

Jack scoffed. “Doubt it.” 

Tim hurriedly wisked away all evidence of a bad night, throwing out the empty cans and bottle, setting the washer going. While he washed the door with lysol strong enough to hide any lingering smells, his father polished off the food. Tim carefully hide his relief at that; it was always a bad sign when his father refused to eat. 

“Do you want to take a shower?” He asked as he levered the man upright and into the chair.

“Don’t feel like it.”

Tim hadn't thought he would. 

Silence reigned as he helped his father into pants, fresh socks and shoes. A horn blared distantly as he directed his father into the bathroom, wordlessly passing over toothbrush and paste before hustling away to get dressed. He wasn't about to greet Tanya in one of his dads t-shirts and Wonder Woman boxers. He had an image to maintain, no matter how annoying it was to do so. 

By the time they were both dressed, scrubbed and relatively presentable, the phone in his room sounded an alarm that was the muffled recording of water through pipes that alerted him to Tanya rolling into their space in the garage. He had set up a the perimeter warning the same day they moved in. An early warning was all too often imperative these days. 

When a cheerfully rhythmic knock sounded at the door Tim had his phone, his backpack and his persona perfectly in place.

Tanya was forty something, six-one, built like a pro wrestler, with the most beautifully elegant hands and broadest smile Tim had ever seen. She was far and away his favorite carer thus far. 

“Hey there, kiddo!” The bandana holding the mass of her hair back from her face was rubber duck yellow and with weirdly proportioned rabbits dancing across it. Tiny diamond earrings glittered in her lobes and a silver helix hoop sparkled cheerfully. “In a hurry today?”

“Like always!” Tim returned with equal cheer, toning it down with a faint grimace and a hand scrubbing through his hair. Tanya was observant and had enough cousins, nephews, nieces and children of her own to have a well practiced bullshit detecter. It was always a workout keeping his mask in place in front of her. 

“I do not miss the days of high school myself,” Tanya said sympathetically. She waved at Jack rolling into view but didn't take her attention from Tim. “You going to be doing club stuff today too?”

“Yeah. Might even stay over at a friends after, since school is so fricking far.”

“Ah, well, I’ll stay most of the evening with your dad, then. We still have several hours left for this week.” When his father wheeled out of the hallway, her grin dampened down to a more professional smile. “Good morning, Mr Drake! How are you feeling today?”

Jacks eyes flicked up and down, taking in her hot pink jeans and purple top, the medical shoes that were just shy of crocks, and grunted non comically before looking away. 

Tanya’s smile became even more strained and Tim hurried to draw her attention away from his dad. They had gone through twice as many caregivers as they had physical therapists and Tim really, really didn’t want to lose Tanya. 

“How’s your mother? Still sick?”

Tanya laughed. “If you listen to her, she’s at deaths door. But then again she always is.”

Tim snickered. He swept quickly into the kitchen when Tanya began brightly outlining the plan for the day to his dad. He tied the trash bag shut, keeping himself between it and Tanya. So far he had done a decent job of disguising just how much Jack drank, making sure to replace the beer and liquor before its absence could be noted. He even transferred the cans and bottles into the older, empty boxes. 

He wasn’t quite sure why he was so vigilant, why he so desperately didn’t want her to know. He tried not to think about it. 

“We’re off!” Tanya called and Tim hurried to sling the trash bag and his backpack over opposite shoulders.

“I’ll ride down with you.”

His father rolled down the hallway towards the elevators while Tanya held the door open for Tim, and then waited beside him while he locked it. As they followed after Jack she kept pace with his, his fathers bag of supplies knocking lightly against his arm where it hung from her shoulder. 

“There’s hooks on the back of the chair for that,” he said quietly. Tanya hummed.

“I know.”

Great. She probably wouldn’t be around for much longer no matter what Tim did. 

He tried not to let his sudden gloominesss show as they rode silently down to the garage. He veered off to jog to the garbage bin and then ran back, helping his dad back onto the lift at the back of Tanya’s company van. When his dad was settled and belted in, Tanya leaned against the closed door of the drivers seat and waved Tim closer. 

She peered at his face for moment while he waited obediently in front of her, before reaching out to tuck his hair behind his ear. “Your’e getting a little shaggy there, kiddo.”

Tim laughed. “I know. I kind of like it though.”

“Growing it out?”

Tim hummed agreement. Honestly, he just hadn’t thought about it. His hair was so far down the agenda it was basically a part of the foundation. Tanya ruffled it, disrupting the order she had previously created and Tim forced himself not to lean into her hand. 

“It looks good. Your weight, on the other hand…” She cocked a brow meaningfully. “If I wind up staying late I’m make sure to cook extra for you. I’ll leave it in the fridge.”

Hah. She wouldn’t have anything to cook with. He rearranged his plans from picking up groceries to ordering them delivered. It was more expensive, but probably better int he long run. 

“In that case, there’s going to be a grocery delivering at six. Would you mind putting it away?”

“Sure thing, kiddo.” She opened the door with a pop. “I’ll let you go now. Be safe, alright?”

“You too, Tanya.” Tim stood on his toes to peer through the tinted back window and waved. “Bye dad! Have a good day, and I’ll see you tonight!”

As usual, his dad didn’t respond a quick glance and possibly a grunt. Tim was simply happy to be acknowledged. 

With a last wave at Tanya, he ducked out of the garage and jogged along the sidewalk to the bus stop. 

Leaning against the side of the little plexiglass cubicle, he kept an eye on the surrounding pedestrians and traffic while quickly placing the grocery order. The street was a busy one, most of the surrounding building composed of shops on the lower floors and apartments on the upper. Most of the buildings were old and a little ragged, but it was desirable and most importantly safe neighborhood, so the rent was higher than the apartments themselves merited. Tims building especially, but it was up to code and the right configuration for his dad, so he didn’t mind even if it was less comfortable than their last apartment. 

He still missed it, with its tiny balcony and pristine air conditioner. But the irate neighbors had threatened to call child services if his dad kept shouting and screaming at all hours of night while drunk. 

Thin walls really did make bad neighbors, apparently. 

His ride rolled to a stop and Tim entered last. A quick sweep of the seats, cataloging positions and faces and clothing, and he chose to stand at the back, in front of a an elderly couple that seemed to preoccupied with each other to bother with him. 

As the bus lurched into motion, Tim scrolled through his messages. 

Drake Ind. was all but dead, only a few small businesses still running. Tim had decided to keep their tech branch open, with a focus on programming. No imports, no storage spaces, no real overhead. Just a bunch of developers and programmers in an office space and with a lot of free coffee. The profits were smaller than was optimal considering he’d made sure to provide decent health and dental coverage, but hopefully it would balance out eventually. The current employees had assured him (or rather, his dad, the official CEO) that they had a solid moneymaker in development and it would be ready within the next year. 

Tim hoped so. 

Currently, most of the bills were being paid through Tims other endeavors. The income from Drake Ind. covered most of the rent, though, which Tim was happy with. 

His current project would hopefully refilled the their coffers and cover the next few months bills and expenditures. 

If all went well, at least. 

The first few months following his fathers awakening and their search for a residence, Tim had been too busy to even contemplate his previous lifestyle of stalking and roof-running. It had been almost two years, after all, since he first veered off course and kicked the first domino that knocked down his entire life. 

He still didn’t regret it, precisely. Jason was probably still alive somewhere. But he wished it could have been different. Wished he had done something else, found some other alternative. When he lay awake at night, which was more often than not, he would trace the line of causality and inevitably follow it to its conclusion. 

He’d destroyed his parents livelihood. If he hadn’t done so, there would have been no need for them to partner with Dorrance, which meant that there would have been no reason for his mother to die. If he had been smarter, if he had left his parents business alone, if he hadn’t nearly bankrupted them in order to kill a man, then his mother would still be alive, his father would still have his wife. 

But then Jason would be dead. 

It made him sick that he still couldn’t decide which death would have been worse. 

Sitting hunched on a bench on the darkened patio of a Marina cafe, Tim watched the yacht several docks away and forced his mind back on track. 

He might not follow the Bats religiously like he once had but he kept tabs on them through other means. It was vital that he did, what with his current occupation. So he knew, now, that Nightwing and Batman were never seen on the same night. Knew that Bruce Wayne was still in recovery and no longer in the country, receiving specialist care somewhere else. Which was likely the only reason Tim had gotten away with what he was doing.

A group of brilliantly attired people were walking down the dock to the yacht and took it as his cue. Standing, he stretched for a moment, watching as they began to climb the ramp and were discreetly scanned via a hand wand, more elegantly designed than those used by airport security. They submitted easily and were politely waved ahead in short order, where they joined the crowd of similarly brilliant people on deck and inside. 

It was the last group and Tim waited as the yachts staff began the unmooring, then, waterproof diving bag over his shoulder, climbed the cafe fence and ran towards the yacht. 

Time to go to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for money problems, alcoholism, emotional abuse, a minor acting as caretaker, and Jack Drake being a wanker.
> 
> This chapter doesn't have a lot of action in it, but I hope its not too disappointing. And just wait til you see who appears next chapter ~
> 
> As always, comment if so inclined and have a good, safe week!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs at bottom of chapter

The suit, somewhat depressingly, still fit mostly the same. Tim adjusted his tie in the reflection of the railing and listened to the conversations ebbing and flowing behind him. 

The ship was a modern thing, sleek and white and chrome, cutting through the water like a sushi chefs blade through dead flesh. The engine purred so smoothly and quietly there was no hint of vibration underfoot or through the railing Tim rested his arms across. They were not leaving the harbor, merely trolling aimlessly from one end to the other with the black expanse of the ocean to starboard and the hazy light of Gotham to port. 

There were fifty-eight guests and twenty staff. With three above deck levels for the guests to wander and two belowdecks for the the staff, there was more than enough space.

Usually Tim wouldn’t dare show his face in such a crowd. He was a child and therefore out of place, but for once his age would be boon. 

The Falcone family had many, many branches, and many, many relatives who were quite prolific. Tim was in the novel position of not being the youngest or the smallest for once, and he was enjoying the anonymity even if it was only to be found amongst mobsters. 

It was an engagement party for Falcones niece. Of course, a Family party could not exist without some form of business being carried out in the background. On that evenings agenda was the transference of several hundred thousands in cash for high grade weaponry. 

Tim watched as Falcone himself glided by the windows behind him, bodyguard at each shoulder. He was smoking a cigar and waving it as he spoke, thick ropes of smoke following the motion. The man with him was slim and elderly, looking more like someones genteel grandfather than a gun runner. 

Tim pulled out his phone and leaned his elbows on the railing, holding it up as though taking a picture of the city skyline. But the selfie camera was angled over his shoulder. He took a few pictures of Falcone and then a few of the skyline. Both to allay any possibility of suspicion and also because it was pretty. 

He scrolled through the shots, archiving Falcones behind a firewall and adjusting the saturation on a few of the skyscape. In the reflection he kept track of Falcone. 

A fireworks display was set for ten. During that time, all the guests and most of the staff would be occupied on the upper, outer decks. In Tims opinion, it would be the perfect time to conduct illicit business. 

As he’d been camped out by the Marina all day, Tim was fairly confident he knew how the guns had been smuggled on board. There were only so many crates of fireworks needed for a private show and thirty seemed rather high. Especially considering the size of the boxes themselves. And no amount of fireworks needed armed guards. 

A trio of screaming children careened behind him, pursued by a haggard looking older boy who had likely been designated as the child minder for the evening. Tim shared a commiserating wince with him as he passed, before angling his face back towards the phone. It was unlikely he would be recognized as an imposter, but if he was it would likely be due to the other children on board; in Tims experience, children tended to blend together for adults.

Still, he was fairly confident that he wouldn’t be noticed. Brown contacts, dark foundation and a few freckles were enough to make him unremarkable. 

The yacht began yet another slow, wide turn and Falcone walked out of sight, cigar smoke a fading trail. 

Tim pocketed his phone and ambled in the opposite direction the man had gone. 

The lowest out deck of the yacht was the least populated and Tim dodged neatly around the few guests and the hurrying waiters carry empty trays down and refilled ones up. 

The galley was too busy for him to pass through but beside it was a narrow corridor. It was fairly barren, just plain gray faux tile and white walls. Tim waited in the shadows of the deck until the swinging door was clear and view through the circular window showed the corridor was empty before slipping quickly through and down the corridor. 

Steam from the kitchen made it stuffy and staggeringly warm compared to the windy chill of the deck. The clamor of dishes and running water and conversation escaped through the same cracks of the kitchen door as the steam. It smelled just as warm and inviting as the steam felt and the conversation sounded. 

Tim ducked beneath the larger window of the kitchen door and hurried down the corridor. 

The stairs were were narrow, the carpeting on them far too thin to disguise the metal they were constructed of. Tim stepped lightly. 

At the bottom of the stairs was a much longer and only slightly less narrow corridor. Doors were interspersed throughout, storerooms for the most part. At the very end of the corridor was the door to the hold. 

The door was steel, with a lock that even Tim would struggle to pick in under five minutes. But at the moment there was no need to. It was unlocked and all the guards were stationed inside. 

Tim didnt wait. Lingering would only increase the chances of being found and escorted back to the upper decks. He loosened his cuffs, removed his tie and crack his knuckles as he hurried to the door. With a running leap, he planted one foot against the wall, shoving upwards with all his strength as he hooked his fingertips over the top of the door frame. Twisting, straining, he lodged himself neatly in the corner above the door, held up almost entirely through one knee planted on the wall and a foot balanced on the narrow frame of the door. 

He waited, breathing silent and even. It had been a relatively quiet ascent but he didn't know if the guards inside the hold were close enough to hear. When nothing happened, he sighed in relief and curled downwards just enough to scrape his nails hard against the door. 

He could feel the low hum of the engine in his fingertips pressed tight against the wall and he strained to hear anything through the hold door. And when it scraped slowly open beneath him he tensed, waiting and hoping desperately the guard wouldn’t look up. 

The man was blond and wearing a button up shirt of wrinkled blue cotton, sleeves shoved up. Though was stood out most was the gun slung across his body, the butte of it cupped in one hand as he ambled into the hallway.

“I don’t see anything!” He shouted back into the hold. “You’re just hearing things.”

“Shut up!” Was the distant reply. 

The man snorted, rolling his shoulders and setting the gun swinging against his chest. 

Tim reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a ball bearing and threw it down the corridor. 

It pinged off the wall, vanishing against the industrial grey of the carpet. The guard startled, both hands falling to cradle the gun. Wary, he walked slowly away from the hold door. 

Gripping the jam, Tim tucked tight and swung through, landing lightly on the bare metal of the floor and hurling himself quickly to the side. 

Hidden in the shadows behind a stack of boxes, he stood stiff and tense, waiting for the alarm to be raised. Seconds ticked by and sweat slid down his spine but when the guard returned, he shut the door without a hint of suspicion and walked away. 

Tim rested the back of his head against the wall and breathed out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes. 

The hold was cold, far colder than the corridor. Metal walls, metal floor, metal ceiling. It smelled faintly of exhaust and stale saltwater. 

Tim edged around the stack of boxes. From what he could hear there were three guards, and he listened to the quiet murmur of conversation between two of them. 

In the back of the hold was a stack of crates and boxes in a circle of cleared space. As expected it was the excess fireworks, the discreet logo of a high end Italian company . The warning labels overwhelmed the branding and a red painted crowbar rested on top of the stack, ready for use.

The two guards were leaning against the stack, guns hanging from slings as they spoke together. Tim kept and eye on them as he eased behind a stack of empty cardboard cases that had once held champagne. It was a tight fit, but it was closest coverage available and he made himself comfortable on one knee while fishing his phone from his pocket. 

The door slammed open and the guard sprung to attention and away from the crates, the lazy air vanishing as their faces firmed in the dull light of the hold lights. 

Tim quickly began recording. 

“Eighty M-4s, you said?” Falcones voiced boomed off the walls, heavy and dragging from the weight of years of cigars and thick Italian Gotham hybrid accent. 

“Hmm, yes. And twenty fully automated machine gun mounts, extended belt clips included. As per request.” This voice was smoother and higher and carried a musical lilt. A faint accent, too faint to identify.

“Hm,” Falcone grunted, and walked into view. 

The cigar was still light and half burned away, and he shoved it into the hands of one of his personal guards. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it to the side, one of the hold guards scrambling to catch it before it hit the ground, and rolled up his sleeves. 

“Handguns?”

“Thirty MK23s, laser sights and extended magazines. Suppressors included.”

Falcone grunted again and fitted the crowbar under the lid of the crate. Tim tenses as the nails squealed as they were forced free and the wood cracked as Falcone shoved the lid aside. Raising slightly higher on his knees, Tim peered over the edge of his cardboard barrier and zoomed in the camera as Falcone rustled through the box, throwing aside straw and digging through the guns to reach one in the center. 

Falcone handled the weapon with an eery, graceful ease that looked wrong against the softness of his hands and the opulence of his silk vest. The only sound was the ever present hum of the engine, the muffled whistle and wail of fireworks and the click click click of metal components jarring against one another. 

The camera of his phone was carefully protruding over the top of a stack of empty champagne cases as he dutifully recorded the encounter. But his attention was on the plain brown briefcase one of Falcones personal bodyguards held. If the tired incremental lowering of the mans arms were any indication, it was intriguingly heavy.

Tims vague fears that it would be a cashless transaction were for naught, it seemed. 

“Automatic?” Falcone rumbled, voice like gravel and dense pudding. 

The weapons dealer stepped briskly to his side, reaching past him to grab a gun for himself. His wrinkled and age spotted hands were steady as stone as he disconnected the barrel. “Indeed. Direct from the US military reserves. Amazing how many things fall off these modern trucks.”

“Amazing,” Falcone drawled. He whipped the gun up, looking down the sight and pulling the trigger with a single deadened click. “Smooth.”

“Only the best for my most loyal Gotham clientele.”

“Most? I trust you mean only.” The gun swung back around, stopped inches from the dealers chest and Falcone pulled the trigger with another hollow click. “I pay as most for the exclusivity as I do for the product.”

“Of course,” the dealer replied. He pushed the muzzle aside with one finger, seemingly unaffected. Tim supposed one would have to be unflappable if that type of business. 

“The rest of the order will be delivered at the usual place?” Falcone demanded briskly. He set the gun back into the crate, one finger tapping thoughtfully against it. 

“If that is what you would prefer.”

Falcone grunted agreeable. “Double the ammunition.”

“That would necessitate putting a hold on my other customers. Double the price for the extra.” When Falcone scowled the dealer shrugged, voice genial and unmoved. “My stock is not infinite, Mr Falcone. Military grade just not simply sprout from my rose garden.”

Falcone scoffed. “Fine. Double.”

The crates were resealed and, with less ceremony than Tim expected, the briefcase full of bound stacks of bills was inspected and changed hands. 

The dealer was alone. Tim knew better than to think that would make things easier on him; the man might be elderly and thin, but Tim imagined he wouldn’t have gotten so old or so thin if he wasn’t dangerous. 

Tim would wait until they were docking once more, and make his move then. Now that the business was concluded Falcone would likely leave the dealer to his own devices. Vulnerable to theft, hopefully. Tim considered the various decks and rooms and routes that the man might be lured down, absentmindedly keeping the camera steady, when the hold door blew in. 

The sound was deafening. Tim stumbled to the side, nearly toppling out of shelter and into view. His ears rang and his balance wavered. From the corner of his eye he could see the guards scrambling, the dealer falling hastily towards the back with a tight grip on the case. Guns were drawn and leveled at the door, which hung from one hinge, the steel buckling at the handle. 

Like the dramatic introduction of the main villain, stage right, a helmeted man stood framed by the buckled door, drifts of acrid smoke winding around his braced legs. 

The last hinge squealed as it gave up the fight, the door thudding to the floor.

The helmet was featureless and fresh blood red, shining like a wet cherry in the corridor lights. A brown leather jacket gaped over sleek black body armor, a splash of red over the chest. Two handguns sat in holsters on either thigh and he held a shotgun lazily. He pumped it one handed.

“Knock knock,” he drawled. 

“Who the—“ 

Whatever Falcone was going to say was interrupted by a shotgun blast directly to the chest. Shreds of silk flew as he stumbled back, bodyguards grabbing and pulling him to the side. 

Despite his night time excursions Tim had never had the misfortune to witness a firefight. He’d in fact thought the name might be a misnomer. 

He did not think that anymore. 

Flattened to the ground, he dragged himself along by his elbows and prayed not to be taken out by the ricochets. Of which there were many. 

The gunfire seemed continuous, barely a break to be heard, and the lights went out one by one. Glass rained down from shattered bulbs and the air was filled with the scent of burnt powder and rapidly heated metal. Particles of splintered wooden, shredded cardboard, packing foam and plastic fluttered down like feathers from a burst pillow, weirdly slow and calm in comparison to the chaos. 

A fountain of sticky coolant fluid rained down behind Tim, soaking his legs and he flinched. Over the gunfire came a sharp laugh, followed by a scream as someone finally went down. There was only one exit from the hold and Tim was fairly sure the gunman was still blocking it. 

A chip pf metal whizzed by the front of his face. 

Well, gunman or not, Tim couldn’t remain where he was. 

Lunging the last few feet, he rolled out the door, aiming an elbow at the mans knee as he went. Surprisingly, it did not connect and instead Tim blinked, and he was on the floor, a boot planted heavy on his sternum and a gun leveled at his face. 

He froze. 

The helmet tilted to the side and the gun jerked away, aiming high at the ceiling even as the mans other hand continued shooting into the hold. “What the hell?”

“Kill that little bastard!” Falcones voiced boomed from the depths of the hold and the gunfire intensified. 

“Fuck!” The gunman said and Tim yelped as the boot lifted from his chest only to slip under his back and flip him to the side, where he landed shoulders first into the corner, out of the door and the bullets rocketing through it.

The gunman fell back on the other side, mirroring Tim with his shoulders in the corner as he reloaded, clip slotting into a place with click Tim could just barely make out over the renewed shouting and continued hail of bullets. 

When the guy spoke it was surprisingly clear through the helmet.

“I’m going in there,” he paused to shoot around the doorframe, a single shot that spawned a shriek of agony, “and you are going to run like hell. Capisce?”

Tim nodded, eyes mostly on the gun. It wasn’t nearly as intimidating as a murderous Dorrance bearing down at top speed, but it was certainly not kind on the blood pressure regardless. 

“Okay, then. On three,” another few shots around the door, more answering screams. “One, two, three!”

Tim sprinted for the stairs and while heavy boots clattered on the fallen door behind him. 

The corridor was empty and the sounds from the kitchen were gone. Through the porthole window of the door to the deck he could see people running by, the glow of the lighting reflecting on their white uniforms. Staff members. 

The door opened abruptly when Tim was merely yards away and he jerked back, into the galley door and through just as a wave of security in cheap suits poured through with drawn guns. 

Tim stood on his toes and peered through the window of the galley door as they barreled down the stairs. 

He swallowed and, nonsensically, hoped the gunman would be able to handle them. 

He picked his way through the galley, stepping over a toppled roast pig, a shattered bottle of cooking sherry. The emergency exit at the back of the galley was open, red light flashing. It opened to a tiny chamber with a ladder affixed to the wall and wind swirled down the tunnel leading to the deck, chilling the metal rungs to ice beneath his fingers and dragging at his hair as he climbed. 

The lowest deck was chaotic. Overhead, fireworks were still flaring and popping, most of the guests not yet aware of the trouble below deck. But the staff was hurrying, pulling life-vests and rafts from the compartments along the walls. There were security stationed at all the doors leading to the hold, armed and grim and steady handed with competence. 

Tim hurried to the nearest stairs to the upper deck, squeezing past the staff running up and down it and hoping no one would stop him. 

Topside once more, he looked over the crowd. The bride and groom were at the center, arms linked as they looked skyward, but Tim could see that the bride was angling frequent looks at the stairs. Whether in anticipation of Falcones scheduled and by now late return, or because she was aware that something untoward was happening below her feet. At the edge of the crowd were more security, only a few as most were below and occupied. 

Tim didn’t doubt the calm would not last for long and was proven correct almost immediately. 

A massive, throbbing boom sounded and the whole yacht shuddered, the lights flickering. The fireworks tilted just as one was lit, shooting it off to the side towards the shoreline. The live band were jostled, brief discordant notes ringing out before the lowered their instruments as they looked around in wary uncertainty. 

For moment there was confused silence. And then, just as Tim expected, the gunfire spilled out onto the deck below. 

Well, he thought as the guests screamed and panicked and generally behaved as frightened civilians were wont, at least the gunman was not dead yet. 

“Everyone, please follow me to this side of the ship in an orderly manner!” A woman in a crisp white jacket called, standing at the opposite stairway from the gunfire. A surge of people advanced towards her, a thousand flower bright figures bending in a gale force of fear. Dozens of demands and questions flowed, now that there was a person to direct them towards, and the woman raised her voice louder. “There was an incident below deck! The ship is now taking on water,” screams rose in response to that statement and the woman hurried on, “very, very slowly! There is ample time, so please proceed slowly to starboard, where the crew will help you evacuate!”

Well. At leas that left the port side clear for Tim. 

He dodged around the edge of the rapidly diminishing crowd and crouched by the railing, peering down. 

Security were hunkered behind all the scant coverage below, and Tim saw Falcone staggering rapidly away, held up on either side by his bodyguards as they propelled him along. There was no blood that Tim could see through the shredded remains of the vest and shirt and silk tie, only the black of an armored vest. Not dead then, and unlikely to be any time soon. 

“Coward!” The gunmans voice called. Tim caught a flash of red before it vanished again. 

There was no sign of the weapons dealer or the money. 

Security were backing up the stairs, shooting downwards, and then they spilled onto the deck. The guests that had grudgingly formed and orderly line on the other side of the deck were once again spurred into a panic. 

Tim rolled hurriedly out of the path of the security as they arrived in wave. He narrowly avoided being crushed under tan loafers as one of them climbed the railing. The gunfire from below came even faster and one of the unlucky men left in the stairs screamed and fell over the side, back to the deck he had just escaped from. 

In response, the others fled faster.

The decks were full of screaming guests and gunmen. Tables and chairs were knocked aside and broken glassware glittered from the floor. The bar was on fire, bottles exploding every few seconds and fueling it higher and hotter, and the streamers fixed to to the ceiling and rails were lines of melting plastic and flame. 

The staff were one deck lower and over the railing Tim could see them hurriedly pulling tabs on the rapid inflate life-rafts and shoving them overboard in direct opposition to standard procedure. Not that Tim could blame them, with a crowd of screaming, frantic passengers pressing in from all sides and guns and fire everywhere else. 

Tim scanned the deck, lips pressed tight. He couldn’t risk joining the guests. Only a dozen people per raft would put him in close contact with highly concerned people. The odds of him being identified as a stranger were far too high. 

Swimming ashore was his only option, then. It had been part of the plan all along, but he had expected to do so when closer to shore. Swimming a few hundred feet was different from almost a mile. 

He peered down at the water. 

Perhaps he should risk the rafts after all?

The yacht shuddered and the lights when out with a whine. 

Bullets tore into the decking by his feet and he hurled himself to the side, rolling over shattered ceramic. In the dimness of fire and yellow emergency lighting, the chaos flared higher. 

“Find him, find him!” Someone shouted from the starboard side. It sounded somewhat like Falcone, but with how winded and wheezy it was, Tim couldn’t be sure. “Find the bastard!”

“Passengers clear!” The voice of the woman arranging the evacuation yelled. “Crew members next!” 

Well. There went that option. 

A quartet of wide eyed security ran by and Tim crawled behind the nearest cover. He bumped against something solid and warm and looked warily up.

Tim and the gunman stared at one another, crouched behind an upturned table. 

“Well, shit,” the man said. “Why are you still here?”

“I got a little turned around,” Tim lied, warily edging as far away as possible while still remaining within their meager cover. Footsteps pounded by, and they both stiffened, silent, until they faded away. 

The gunman groaned and knocked the butt of the gun against his helmet. “Look. This boats gonna be the worlds shittiest submarine in about five minutes. Are your parents still on board?”

Tim laughed. “I highly doubt it.”

“Okay then. Fuck. Fine.” The gun was finally holstered but Tim had no more than a bare second to enjoy its absence before the man grabbed him, too quickly for him to do more than land a punch to a reinforced gauntlet that hurt him far more than it did the gunman. “Take a deep breath, kid.”

Tim didn’t get an opportunity to struggle before he was tucked under the mans arm like a particularly ill used package, armor and weapons holsters and knife sheaths poking into him from all sides. And then they lunged across the deck and were overboard. 

Tim kept his mouth shut not matter how much he wanted to scream. The water was so shockingly cold it burned, and he couldn’t help clawing at the leather clad arm wrapped around his chest. Tim didn’t like swimming, wasn’t good at it, and there was something unexpectedly, viscerally terrifying about sinking into pitch black water while at the mercy of someone far stronger. 

He kicked back with his heel, cried internally when it cracked against plastic. Of course the psychopath was wearing a cup. At least he had the satisfaction of feeling the arm around him flinch. 

They broke the surface.

“Do not kick me again, kid, I swear to God! Just hang tight and I’ll get you ashore.”

“Let me go,” Tim hissed, slamming the palm of his hand under the edge of the helmet. 

“Crap! Just stop it, I’m not going to hurt you!”

“I can swim by myself!” Tim insisted, and continued to squirm. 

The man turned in the water and began swimming on handed, Tim draped across his side and held half out of the water. It was surprisingly secure and Tim slowly stilled, fingers clenching in the mans sleeve. 

Another explosion from the yacht, sending them bobbing in the waves. Tim held on tighter. 

The sand was cold and irregular between Tims fingers as he clutched it. His whole body felt heavy, dragging his spin and ribs downwards and making every gagging heave a monumental effort. 

The hand smacking between his shoulders was not helping either. 

“Keep going, get it out.”

“Stop…. it,” he gasped between retches. 

“Better out than in,” was the cheerful reply. But the smacking changed to vigorous up and down rubbing, for which Tim was marginally thankful. 

Eventually Tim spat out a last mouthful of mucus and polluted Gotham seawater and toppled to the side, where he lay panting and shuddering with cold. 

Apparently he now needed to learn how to fight off madmen whilst in the frigid, ink black ocean. It was not a skill he had ever foreseen the need for and he cursed himself for that oversight. 

“Here. Sit up, come on.” 

The hands were heavy and brisk, but surprisingly not rough as they pulled Tim to his feet and pushed him up the sharply slopped beach. The leather of his gloves felt slimy and unpleasant against the backs of his shoulders, but as they walked Tim could feel the material warming and couldn’t resist leaning back into it. 

He didn’t think he’d ever become quite so cold so quickly in his life. 

Hypothermia, the small still functional corner of his brain reasoned. A depressingly short list of the available treatments scrolled blearily through his head, but the cold was dampening everything. Even his reasoning. All he could feel was a bone deep exhaustion and the fuzziness of a brain barely functioning. 

The stepped onto a wooden surface and the man turned him around, wrapping one arm around him and jerking him close. That was enough to jumpstart a surge of adrenaline and Tim tensed.

“Alright kid, hold on tight.”

There was a familiar click, whir and thunk. A grappling gun? 

Tim made a small, confused sound as they jerked airborne. 

The only ones that regularly used grappling guns were the Bats. He might not have heard the sound of them in person for over a year, but it was still distinctly familiar. 

They landed on a roof, ancient shingled crackling wetly underfoot. 

“Who are you?”

“Is that really the question you should be asking?” The man muttered. His hands pressed down, forcing Tim to sit, and he crouched in front of him. The helmet was gone. When had it gone? 

Tim blinked at the surprisingly young face. 

It was all angles and shadows, carved into sharp relief by stress. A jagged edged red domino stretched over his upper face, the eyes invisible behind filmy white lenses. With how wet it was it was impossible to tell whether his hair was black or simply dark, but the shock of white at his hairline was a stark contrast. 

“Who are you?” Tim repeated blearily.

The man looked up from where had been extracting things from a thigh pouch. Which Tim should probably had been paying more attention to. 

“I’m the Red Hood. There, you know my name. Happy now?”

Tim nodded and blinked heavily. “Thank you.”

The man — Red Hood— stared at him. “Shit then. Your'e welcome. Did you hit your head?”

“Not recently,” Tim said honestly and watched as Red Hood shook out a silvery sheet. An emergency blanket.   
“Well that’s not exactly reassuring.” The blanket flared with an unpleasant crunch and settled around Tims shoulders. “Hold that tight, got it? I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get something to warm you up, since apparently you're my responsibility. God, karma really is a bitch.” 

The grapple fired again and between one blink and the next, Red Hood was gone. 

Tim sat drawn up into tight curl, the blanket stiff and encompassing around him like the shell of a depressed crustacean. 

The harbor was awash with red and blue lights, boat motors buzzing as Coast Guard and GPD circled the destruction half a mile out. Most of the life rafts had been pulled to shore, and when Tim leaned forward slightly he could just see the marina, where damp and discontented people were huddling within blankets just like his. 

Something appeared in front of his face and he jerked a hand up to slap it away. 

“Here.”

The foiled lined paper was hot as Red Hood nudged it against his fingers. He pulled them away with a hiss. It felt molten and the smell of it turned his recently emptied stomach. Grease and hot mustard and sauerkraut. 

He was nauseous even as his stomach growled. 

He took the package. 

Leather creaked as Red Hood stretched his arms overhead. Out in the harbor smoke still coiled up through the low fog and even from such a distance Tim could hear the sirens of the coast guard and the ambulances and police vehicles on the dock. 

A low explosion roared over the water, setting waves sloshing against the timbers of the warehouse frame. 

“Hah. Finally got the ammo,” Red Hood snickered. 

Tim unpeeled the wrapper from his hotdog and took a bite, ignoring the sudden gush of saliva in his dry mouth at the taste. “Aren’t you worried about killing people?”

Red Hood snorted and spoked wetly through a full mouth. “Kid. I was just shooting people.”

“Well, yeah,” Tim muttered. He took tiny bites of mystery meat and bread. Better to let his stomach acclimate slowly than to risk vomiting it all right back up again. And it actually tasted pretty good. “But it was mostly at the joints. And Falcone was wearing a vest, so…”

“That paranoid motherfucker,” Red Hood grumbled. 

“Considering you shot him with a shotgun I’d say he wasn’t all that paranoid after all.”

Red Hood snorted. “Alright, yeah. I’ll give you that one. And next time I’ll aim for his fat fucking face.”

“Or not, maybe?” Tim offered, voice a little higher and more uncertain than was optimal. He took a larger bite to occupy it. 

“I think I’ll just aim higher, thanks.” Hood drew one foot up, heavy, steel toed boot slamming against the tiles, and draped an arm over his knee. Even through the white out lenses of the mans jagged red domino, Tim could feel him staring. “Whats your name?”

Tim swallowed. “Marco.”

“Sure it is,” the man drawled. “So. Marco. Want to tell me what you were doing on that boat?”

“I was supposed to be there,” Tim declared flatly. 

“Like shit you were. I got a good look at everyone who boarded and also the guest list beforehand. You, mi amigo, were a stowaway.”

Tim stared at the water. The sickly orange glow of the burning yacht had faded out. The remains were likely hitting the floor of the water by now. 

He was used to strange things. Even if he were simply a regular Gothamite he would be well accustomed to the weird. But sitting shoulder to shoulder with a man that had literally sunk a multimillionaire dollar deal between a global weapons dealing conglomerate and the Falcone family and showed not a hint of apprehension in regards to the inevitable retribution was a little unsettling even for him. 

He licked a smear of mustard off the wrapper, crumpled it up and stuck it in his pocket for later disposal. He was not about to add littering to his list of sins if he could help it. 

“I don’t really think its any of your business why I was there,” he said calmly and didn’t flinch when a gloved hand dropped on his shoulder. 

“Now, I don’t agree, consider I nearly shot out your brains.”

Tim shrugged. Reassuringly, the hand moved with him, didn’t squeeze tighter or press down. “It would have been an accident.”

“Jesus Christ,” Red Hood muttered and with his free hand pinched the bridge of his nose. Tim waited while he took a few loud, bracing breaths before continuing in a somewhat calmer tone. 

“Look. I don’t kill kids. Thats a hard limit for me. No kids, no pregnant women and no civilians.”

“I’m technically a teenager,” Tim offered. 

“Like fucking shit you are, infant. And shut up, I’m doing a monologue.”

“Oh. Carry on then.”

“Fucking sass,” he grumbled. “Anyway. As I was saying. I don’t kill kids. The fact that I nearly did on my debut fucking night is kind of a big deal. And that it was some fancy pants stowaway that wasn’t even supposed to fucking be there makes it worse. Got it?”

No, Tim thought. “Yes.” 

Hood pinched the bridged of his nose harder and shook his head.

“Jesus Christ.”

“What?” 

“Just tell me why you were there!”

“Fine!” Tim snapped. His own crime paled in comparison to Red Hoods own, after all. “I was going to take the weapons payment.”

A very long moment of silence. Then, Red Hood shook his head, leaned back, cocked his head and said “Pardon?”

“I was going to take the weapons payment.”

He held up a finger. Put it down. Held it up again. “One more time. I think I heard wrong.”

With the sort of diction his childhood English tutor would have been proud to hear, Tim repeated himself. “I was going to take the weapons payment.”

“Goddamn, and I thought my punk ass had ambition,” Red Hood said wonderingly. “You were planning to steal from old man Iverson? From Falcone? On his own boat?”

“Its a yacht,” Tim corrected. The shock of the last hour was fading and in its stead was a growing dismay. He’d failed. The money was either at the bottom of the harbor, somehow still safely with the dealer, or in GPD custody. Either way it was out of reach.

He’d needed that money. 

“You were going to steal from a weapons dealer?!” Red Hood shouted. 

Tim pushed to his feet, sodden socks squelching in slightly too small leather shoes and sending out weak spurts of water over the already damp rooftop. Hoods hands shot out, hovering next him as though to grab him or catch him, but Tim kneed the closest one aside and hopped nimbly out of reach. 

“Yes I was going to steal from a weapons dealer! Its not like I’m going to steal from people who don’t deserve it!”

He’d already done that, and look where it had led. Guilt and ulcers and a dead mother. 

“Thats not the fucking point! Are you insane?! Falcone? Iverson, the fucking grandaddy of international arms dealing? Are you fucking suicidal?!”

“Says the guy who blew up a yacht!”

“Yeah! I did blow up a fucking yacht, because I had a plan and it actually fucking worked!” 

“Mine would have too, if some gun toting cowboy in cheap leather hadn’t ruined everything!”

“Excuse you, brat, this is vintage.”

Tim scoffed. “Just because you got from a thrift store doesn't make it vintage.”

Red Hood crossed his arms, nostrils flaring. The material of the domino creased and wrinkled as he frowned, enhancing the glare.

“You actually think you could have walked out of there alive?” He demanded.

“I’ve done it before, it would have gone off perfectly. And I was planning to swim.”

They stood several body lengths apart, glaring. Or at least Tim was glaring, chest heaving with the last dregs of spent adrenaline, with anxiety at the fact that he’d failed again. The rent was due next week. The savings account was only just starting to live up to its title. 

The hotdog was not feeling nearly so nice and filling in his stomach now. 

“Alright. Okay.” Red Hood sat back down with legs dangling over the edge of the roof. “Sit down, short-stack.”

Tim did. A much farther distance away. 

“Look,” Hood said quietly. He dug through a thigh pouch, pulled out a crumpled package of cigarettes. Looked at the brown tinged water dripping out of it and cursed, hurling it into the water below. “Look. You get that these guys would kill you, kid or not, right?”

“I am well aware,” Tim confirmed. He wondered where the briefcase was. Surely the evidence locker wasn’t too difficult to access?

Red Hood stared at him and Tim pretended not to notice, keeping his attention glumly on the action in the water. 

“Okay, Marco. You got somewhere to go?”

“I’m going home.” He slanted a narrow glance sideways. “And I am not telling you where.”

“Fair enough,” Red Hood said. “Come here. I’ll get you down.”

The warehouse wasn’t that high and Tim was confident he could find a way down easily enough. But it was better not to display the full breadth of his ability to someone who had all but kidnapped him. He accepted the offered hand. 

“Theres a bus stop two blocks that way,” Hood said, pointing, when they had walked out of the warehouses. Tim nodded and passed over the blanket. 

“Thank you for the help.”

Red Hood opened and closed his mouth, let out a single high, soft laugh that sounded more confused than amused, and took the blanket. “Yeah, sure, anytime.”

Tim nodded and started walking. 

On the bus he went to the very back corner and emptied his jacket pockets into his pants. He took a moment to hold his phone and stare at the ribbons of water dripping out of it, wondering just what was salvageable out of it. He knew he could pull the data easily enough, but the camera was delicate, especially with all the modifications Tim had put into it. He sighed unhappily. 

Then he took of the jacket, flipped it over his lap and felt along the back of the collar. 

It was tiny. Barely noticeable even when he was looking for it. Sleek, crisp technology that his fingers itched to get a hold of. But the tracker was well embedded into the weave of his of the fabric, and Tim couldn’t risk bring it home regardless. 

Instead, he rolled the jacket into a sodden lump and stuffed it under the seat. At the next stop he left it behind.

As he walked briskly up the street, he consoled himself with the mental image of Red Hood following an empty bus. 

He hoped it took a long time for the man to catch on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for gun violence and being in that dark scary ocean.
> 
> Jason! He has arrived!
> 
> aaaaaahhhh. Everything is on fire, I haven't seen the sky for weeks, my lungs are a wreck. I was thiiiiiis close to just not posting anything. But people are so nice in the comments, so I decided to do it, which was good, because it improved my mood :) Even though, as is always the case with action-y chapters, I hate the finished product :(
> 
> Anyway, I hope everyone stays safe! Comment if inclined


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs at bottom of chapter

When the alarm went off Tim groaned, hand slapping weakly through the pile of clothing on the floor next to him before, through blind luck or grace of God, landing on the clock and toggling it off. 

Then he lay there, face glued to the pillow with tacky drool and hair crunchy with the remnants of dried salt water. Sunlight was sneaking around the edges of the microfiber blanket he had nailed across the window. Dust moats were drifting in a lazy swirl beneath the useless vent on the ceiling and he could hear the grinding rattle of the pipes from the bathroom of the apartment above. 

He pressed his face back into the pillow with a groan. 

He had collapsed the previous… well, this morning, with the hope that things would not be so bleak in the morning. 

He’d been right. It was not as bleak. It was bleaker. 

Like a slug contracting, he curled upright.

He sat with his heels pressing into the edge of the seat cushions, pile of wearable laundry shoving against his spine and head tipped onto the back of the couch as he stared at the ceiling. 

When he’d first realized he would need to be in charge of finding a new place to live and keeping the company from vanishing entirely, he’d known it would be difficult. Most of the Drake assets were still seized, their townhome unlivable. Not that Tim would have wanted to return there considering what had occurred on the premises. Last he had heard, most of the subdivision was up for sale; apparently no one else’s wanted to live at the site of a murder and biological weapon attack. 

But it was even harder than anticipated. 

When their assets were finally released, a good portion was missing or tied up amongst Dorrances accounts, and the rest was used for medical bills, rehousing, and consolidating the few remaining and functional branches of Drake Ind. 

His father was mourning. Barely functioning. So Tim needed to figure out something himself. 

And it was Batman and Robin who gave him the inspiration, as usual. 

In all the years Tim had followed the duo he’d had the opportunity to watch the fallout long after the capes grappled away. So he’d seen just how much was taken as evidence in the aftermath. And only a small portion of it was forensic evidence. 

For every drug dealer, gun runner or crime syndicate, there was a proportionate amount of goods and money, which Batman and his Robins never touched. 

During the last year of his… observation endeavors, when he started compiling evidence and surveillance and passing it along to GPD or the ADA, he’d known what he was providing access to. But it had never sunk in just how much his interference cost the criminals he was informing on. He had never given much thought to the cash, the illegal goods, the untraceable valuables. 

Only a few weeks into debt, he had given it all the thought he could spare. 

And it was nice to go back to when things were simpler. Easier. Reconnaissance, surveillance, documentation and eventually disclosure. It felt clean. Felt right, in a way few things he’d done over the past two years did. Seeing a flock of GPD cars and officers or a pack of government agents converge on unsuspecting criminals was almost like absolution. 

And if he provided himself with a finders fee? Surely, there was nothing untoward about that. 

So far he’d taken down a black market organ smuggler for 20,000, a prostitution ring for 11,000, a meth distributer for 30,000 and an illegal gambling ring for 42,000.

Crime was lucrative, sometimes even for the people stopping it. 

He would have gotten even more, but more than half of the people he investigated needed to be stopped long before Tim could arrange for it to happen while they were in possession of cash. Such as the human trafficker or the trio of assassins or the baby mill for wealthy off-the-books adoptees…

Sometimes stopping them quickly took precedent over a payout. 

So far, Tim had managed to clear them of debt and arrange cheap medical insurance. But they needed a buffer, and it cost money to switch providers so frequently. And the bills…

Falcone would have been his biggest payout yet. Would have been security, for years. 

Tim pressed his hands over his face and groaned.

His father wouldn’t wake up for several hours, which Tim knew he would have to use productively. He didn’t think he would notice exactly what his son was doing but it was better to be safe than caught out. So, even though a shower and food and hydration were probably more important, Tim dragged his laptop into his lap and began to research. 

Several fruitless hours later Tim was hunched around the screen and scowling at it. 

There was nothing. Not a hint as to the identity and motivation of Red Hood. Not even the name Red Hood was to be found anywhere. 

It was as irritating as it was unsettling. 

The man was extremely skilled. He had, single handedly and with nothing but a shotgun, two handguns and a few minor explosives, taken out Falcone and company in twenty minutes. From what Tim could see from the news, there had not been any deaths. At least, not quite yet, with three in intensive care. There had been a great deal of maiming, however, and a good portion of them would never walk without pain or hold a gun again. 

That sort of skills as hard won and very rare. So why was there nothing about the man anywhere that Tim could find?

And why had he sunk the yacht and all the weapons with it?

A mercenary? Tim wondered with a frustrated tug at his hair. A competitor? A confused assassin? Who was he?

Tim realized his alarm had been beeping for a while. Time to start the day.

He stood amid a show of sand and crusted sea salt and crunched his way down the hall to the bathroom. While he stood under the spray and brushed his teeth, he took stock of the various bruises and abrasions peppering his skin. Surprisingly, he was good shape considering the night he’d had. 

Five minutes later, wearing sweats and a towel over his sopping hair, he got the coffee going and poked around in the fridge. 

He’d forgotten Tanya’s promised leftovers and paused to stare at them, blinking at the pale blue sticky note with his name scrawled across the top in looping cursive script. Lasagna. Score.

Eating it cold straight from the container, he noted the groceries neatly put away and raised an eyebrow at the excess. He knew he hadn’t ordered Go-Gurt and he definitely didn’t ask to have his name written over the cardboard far more aggressively than on the leftovers. 

Seems like he owed Tanya money as well as undying appreciation. 

While he fixed his dad instant oatmeal and sliced an apple, he considered what other options remained for quick, untraceable cash. 

Most of the larger gangs would be closing ranks after Red Hood. He doubted any big transactions would occur for at least a week. He pulled a bowl from a cabinet and slammed it shut with his foot, frowning. There were always the dealers, but it was a gamble how much they would have in their possession at any one time, whether they had already passed it on to suppliers or their bosses. Not to mention the high likelihood of being shot at. 

Bowl of oatmeal and apples in hand, he snagged a bottle of water and carried it in to his dad. 

He was sitting up in bed, TV on but volume low. The bedside table was relatively orderly; three beer bottles, two empty and one only halfway, sat in a group rather than thrown across the room. The blanket was still on the bed as well.

Stopped in the doorway, Tim looked around in surprise. Usually the day after a PT appointment his father spiraled and the evidence was always scattered about for all to see. Especially after going to a new provider. 

Shaking off the surprise, Tim stepped into the room. “Morning dad. How are you feeling?”

Jack didn’t look away from the TV immediately but when he did he actually made eye contact. It was enough to make Tim freeze against, bottom of the bowl hovering over the tabletop. He couldn’t remember the last time his dad had looked him in the eye without a glower. 

It didn’t last long. But Tim was estactic even when his dad grunted and jerked his chin at the food. “Whats that?”

“Apples and oatmeal. You still like the maple kind, right?”

His dad grunted again and held out his hand. Tim hurried to pick the bowl back up and pass it over. Slowly, while his dad ate, he started picking up the room. Usually he didn’t have an opportunity to linger and so he was going to take full advantage.

“So how was the appointment?”

His dad scowled and Tim tensed, but the expression was more thoughtful than angry. 

“The physical therapist is a hard-ass,” he finally grumbled. Shockingly, he didn’t leave it at that. “Got some stupid, new age ideas. Spent the whole appointment just breathing. Ridiculous.”

Tim was all but vibrating with excitement. Usually his dad spent the day after an appointment drunk and asleep or railing savagely against the entire profession of physical therapy and the medical field in general. Sometimes Tim and Tanya were included in the rant. 

“Yeah?” He encouragingly.

“Yeah,” his dad continued, increasingly animated. “Useless, stupid. But hell, if she wants to waste her time on that, I’m not going to complain. Better’n putting me through a world of pain for an hour.”

“I’ll bet,” Tim said brightly and shoved his fathers clothes into the hamper. Feeling brave, he edged towards the window. “Hey, is it okay if I open this? Just a crack. Its a little musty in here, right?”

“Damn right it is. Crappy apartment.”

“Yeah, totally,” Tim said brightly. For the first time in over a month the black out curtains went up and he beamed into the city-scented breeze as he opened the window. “Need anything else?”

“Remote’s broken again. Here.” 

Tim hurried over to take it and checked. The backing was loose and jostling the batteries again, a quick fix that had no right to make him feel as accomplished as it did. He handed it back with a grin and smiled even harder when his dad grunted appreciatively as he started flipping through channels. 

“Don’t you have homework or something?” He muttered, settling back in. 

“Sure,” Tim said. It was a pretty soft dismissal, compared to all the others, and he swept up the bottles and bits of trash. “I’m probably gonna go to the library to study. Need any help with anything before I go?”

“Hell, boy, I’m not an invalid,” his dad muttered. “Just put the chair by the bed.”

“Sure thing, Dad.”

The community library situated the edge of the Bowery was a small building that had served at least a dozen different purposes throughout its life. It survived off of the donations and the passion of its volunteer staff and though it was small, it was packed with books. Every Saturday there was a volunteer Read-Along with frequent guest appearances by dogs and cats and the occasional rabbit. 

Tim didn’t spend much time inside the library itself; the rooftop served well enough as an office. It had several little nooks and hideyholes that he could tuck himself into and the recently donated industrial air conditioner was nice and cool to put his back against, even if it was loud. 

He had completed the website maintenance of several bloggers that he contracted his services to and was busily compiling the last of his options. He had already sent off the footage of Falcone to the GPD and could only hope that it wasn’t buried or dismissed as evidence. It likely would be, considering the source was anonymous and Falcone had more than enough wealth and connections to make it disappear. 

It would have been far more satisfying to take his money. 

He had done as much as he could in regards to Falcone, to researching the Red Hood and to trying to find some new source of income. Now it was time to cease his month long procrastination and look into the one project he had no enthusiasm for at all. 

Shiva had spent two months scouring Gotham for her target. Tim hadn’t know that target was him for just as long. During his stint in the safehouse, Tim hadn’t concerned himself with keeping track of his erstwhile teacher and she had not had any interest in him. He was frankly surprised she hadn’t ended him along side Dorrance for reflecting so poorly upon her as a student. 

It was only during a listless attempt to backtrack her previous activities that he stumbled across who she was looking for. 

Word had been put out on her behalf in certain Gotham circles that information about the person or persons responsible for the multimillion dollar theft the previous year would be bought for a tidy sum. A reward was offered for any information resulting in their capture. 

A deeper search had revealed that multiple people had been searching for him since the beginning. 

It was an issue he hadn’t expected to deal with. 

He had known, of course, that the League considered him a person of interest. He was fairly confident that no one short of Batman would be able to trace him and had kept a sharp eye out for just such an eventuality. But when Bruce Wayne and Batman both continued to be distracted by the apparent death, then resurrection, then defection of Jason Todd, he had breathed a sigh of relief and considered himself in the clear. And like an idiot he had not followed up on the matter. 

Once he finally realized just who Shiva was hunting, he had scrambled to throw her off the scent, because after Batman, Shiva was the one he feared most. 

A few discreet rumors to a few so-called reliable sources and Shiva was off to Europe. Which did not solve the problem as neatly as he imagined it would, considering a good dozen other people were still actively searching for him, at great personal expense. Some where his victims and some seemed to have no connection to the matter at all. But all were determined and none of them were concerned with legalities.

Tim had ignored the issue for months, buried in keeping Drake Ind at least partially functional for when his dad was recovered, overseeing said recovery and trying to keep him comfortable and provided the best medical care. 

The money from Falcone had been intended to free him from those at least some of those overarching responsibilities for the foreseeable future, and also provide him with the capitol to begin erasing what little evidence he might had left for Shiva to follow. 

There was only so much he could do digitally before leaving too solid a trail. Especially now that he didn’t have the luxury of replacing his equipment after every hard use. 

Sighing and scrubbing a hand over his face, he frowned at the screen and then conceded defeat for the day, gently closing the laptop. Slipping it into his backpack he spent a moment holding it in his lap and staring at the grey tinged sky, attempting to summon his will to continue. Eventually he made his way off the roof and down into the streets, pointing his steps to the nearest coffeeshop. 

It was a point of equal pride and shame that he had the location of every decent coffee place, from lowly gas station fair to overpriced Italian bistro, memorized. 

The Bowery did not have a wealth of anything besides misfortune, but there was a deli six blocks from the library that served the kind of cappuccino that would get you through the day and most of the night. It also had the best grilled cheese and jalapeño sandwich Tim had ever eaten, which was its menu’s single claim to fame. 

The bundle of mismatch bells over the door clanked together as Tim stepped in, the smell of coffee and condiments and bread slapping him in the face. The checkerboard linoleum floor had a new scorch mark from the last time Tim had visited and the chain anchoring the cash register to the counter was shiny and new. 

Squished between several other buildings, it was narrow and dark, with a straight shot to the counter from the door and three tables set along the wall opposite. The chairs were metal and all warped, generally foreboding in appearance and seemingly designed to discourage customers from lingering. So it was a little odd that someone was braving them, a plate piled with potato chips and three sandwiches in front of them. There head was drooping over it, kept from face planting through the combined effort of an elbow braced on the tabletop and a fist shoved under their chin. 

Though he couldn’t seem their face beyond the downward tilt of a battered Gotham City Sucks baseball cap, Tim figured they were not about to leap up and cause a problem. At least not any time soon. 

The girl manning the counter took his order and didn’t blink at the request for three orders of cappuccino in their largest cup. He waffled for a moment over ordering a sandwich; coffee was a necessity, but he hadn’t been able to keep their income level recently. And he had had lasagna for breakfast, even if he’d left most of it in the fridge for his dad to reheat. 

He skipped the sandwich and accepted the coffee with wordless sigh of appreciation and fifty-two cents of change in the tip jar. Which was also tethered to the counter with a slighter older and thinner chain.

The chairs were just as uncomfortable as they appeared but Tim drew his feet up into the seat and curled around his cup, determined to make himself comfortable regardless. 

Two tables away, the potato chips crunched and Tim glanced over, sipping form his drink. 

Coffee simultaneously drowned him and tried to escape from his nostrils as he choked. 

A sputtering moment later, with the cashier determinedly not looking at him, Tim met the disinterested eyes watching him half dying and said “Jason?”

The hair was darker than Tim remembered, the eyes significantly greener. But it was undeniably Jason Todd. 

Who scowled, looked sharply around the deli and then stopped over to Tims table. 

“Who the hell are—“ Squinting, he planted a hand on the table and leaned closer. “The hell? Tim?”

Eyes still watering from his near death, Tim grinned helplessly wide and waggled his fingers. “Hi!”

Jason sat heavily in the chair across the table, staring at Tim with his face twisted somewhere between slack surprise and a grimace. 

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he muttered. 

Tim ignored that, beaming. “When did you come back to Gotham? I didn’t read anything in the papers.”

“Yeah, you better not have.” Huffing and crossing his arms, Jason leaned back and glared across the table. “I’m here incognito. So you better not mention seeing me.”

“Sure, if that’s what you want,” Tim said agreeably. 

He hadn’t really thought he’d see Jason again. Even if he came back to Gotham, Tim had assumed they wouldn’t cross paths again. Their family social circles were far too disparate now, and the Drake name was practically synonymous with pariah. 

But here he was, close enough that Tim could see the new scar cutting through his left eyebrow, could hear him grumbling under his breath and feel the way his leg was jiggling under the table with thwarted energy. He wanted to ask where he had been. He wanted to ask whether he was here to stay. But it wasn’t any of his business and he had no right to ask, so he settled for a broad grin and a completely sincere “Its nice to see you again.”

Jason scoffed. “I’m surprised you even remember me. Its been like two years, kid.”

“I’ve never been the one who doesn’t remember,” Tim pointed out.

“Yeah, okay, that’s fair.” Jason frowned at him while Tim busied himself with sipping his coffee, determined to make his acid washed sinuses worth it. “I heard shit went down with your family.”

Tim tensed, nails denting the cardboard of his cup as he stared at Jason in startled reflex. He never would have guessed Jason of all people would keep apprised of the Drakes misfortune, however much the media flaunted it through cheap ink and pixels. 

He looked into the depths of his drink and shrugged. “More or less.”

Jason sighed, shoving his hat back to scratch at his hair as he looked over Tims shoulder and out the scratched window at the front of the store. “Sorry about your mom.”

Tim swallowed and nodded, biting his lip.

“And uh, Dorrance. He still here?”

Not the question Tim was expecting but it was better than talking about dead mothers. Tim figured both of them had had more than enough of that. 

“He’s in a coma. The police say he fell out of his office window, or jumped. Last I heard he was taken to a prison hospital.”

“Fucker,” Jason grunted. He was watching Tim now, too green eyes steady. Tim wondered if they were were contacts, if so why he was wearing them. “I would’a thought the Bat would’ve taken care of him. Useless fucking halloween ornament.”

Tim didn’t know whether to be amused or concerned about the depth of honest disdain in those words. He thought it best to ignore it, but Jason was not done with the topic, apparently. “The asshole butts into everything, but when an actual terrorist sets up shop in his town he just sits back on his ass and does nothing?”

“Some of the Bat-blogs said he was busy with League stuff at the time,” Tim offered cautiously. He knew that Batman and Robin had been at odds before… well, before, but he hadn’t thought there would still be tension years later. 

Jason frowned at him. “You mean you don’t hate the Bats guts for not dealing with Dorrance before everything went to shit?”

Before his mother died, he meant. Tim curled tighter into his seat and stared at the register, the old fliers tucked to the wood and the linoleum peeling up from the edges of the floor. 

“He’s just a person,” he said softly, the cup turning in his hands. It was getting tepid, but he didn’t feel like drinking it now. “I mean, Dorrance was— was really good at what he did. No one suspected anything.” No one but Tim and he hadn’t done anything to keep his parents safe. How could he blame Batman when Tim was the one who should have done something and didn’t? “It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know.”

Across the table Jason was still staring, teeth grit behind thin lips. His hands gripped the edge of the table and his his knuckles were white front eh pressure, his fingertips and nail beds bleached white. It didn’t seem like Jason was actually seeing him at all and the hair on the back of Tims necks good on end. 

“Jason? Are you alright?” 

“Huh?” Blinking, he swiped the sweat off his upper lip with the back of his wrist, the intensity receding quickly enough Tim was pretty sure it made both of them dizzy. “Yeah, fuck. Sorry.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and dragged his hat back over his head, pulling the brim low. Tim was adept at recognizing headaches by now and winced internally. Poor Jason. 

“Sorry,” Jason repeated. “Not a great conversational topic, huh?”

“No, its not exactly ideal,” Tim agreed. But he smiled, because how could he be mad at Jason? Jason, who he thought he would never see again except at a distance. 

“Yeah. Fuck.” Outside an ambulance blazed by, siren wailing, and briefly flooded the store with neon-esque light. Jason flicked a glance at it as it went but returned his attention to Tim. “Whats a kid like you doing on this side of town?”

“Kid like me?” Tim repeated, amused. He took a long chug of cappuccino and lamented the deflated state of the foam. Thats what he got for not multitasking. “I was just visiting the library. The one a couple blocks away?”

Jason seemed to… brighten, somehow, at that. The crooked grin that stretched over his face was startlingly Robin-like and Tim knew he had dozens of pictures hidden in hides-holes throughout the city to prove it. 

“Shit, they still doing Read-Alongs there?”

Tim nodded and Jason barked a laugh, leaning back in the chair so thoroughly it groaned. 

“Its a good place. I spent a lot of time there when I was a kid. They had this, this fucking dog that came in sometimes, smelled like eggs gone bad. Fart through the whole process. Soft as shit though, fluffy little bastard.”

Tim was fascinated. Embarrassingly, he itched to take notes or record the moment. Something.

“Last I heard Dodah Eisler was still the boss of the place,” Jason mused, eyes on the ceiling. “Swear she’s been there for a thousand years.”

Tim didn’t know anything about that. He wished he had bothered to actually go into he place, and not just use their roof and leech off their wi-fi. Maybe then he would have something to say. As it was he just shrugged uselessly.

Jason groaned and stretched, shoulders popping, before he abruptly stood, returned to his table and collected his plate and chips and then sauntered back, slamming it on the tabletop. 

The cashier gave him a dirty look, which was returned with a jaunty and vaguely apologetic wave.

“Alright, kid,” he said, the chair squealing sadly over the floor as he threw himself into it. “ Now that we have an understanding…” He lifted his brows promptingly. 

“No telling anyone you’re here,” Tim said cheerfully. 

“Right. Now that we have an understanding, tell me what’s going on. Give me all the dirt that’s spreading round in high fucking society.”

Tim considered pointing out that he was not exactly a member of said high society anymore, but he did keep up with all the goings on. 

“Well, you know Mrs Davenport died, so a lot of the matrons are fighting for the position.” He had more than enough practice and skill to keep his face smooth unchanged. He still occasionally woke in a cold sticky sweat with the pulpy sound of fists against flesh crawling. Through his ears. “Mrs Cohen and Mrs Saed are the top runners there. Whoever throws the best Christmas ball this year will probably win.”

Jason snorted and muttered, “Won’t catch me there dead or alive.”

“Considering you're incognito I imagine not,” Tim said. 

“Bite me.”

“No thanks.” Tim swallowed the last remnants from his cup and set it down. It was more battered than it should, be, covered in nail marks and crumpled from being held too tight, with teeth marks all along the rim. Pretty par for the course, really. Tim should start working on his bad habits again. “Anyway, whoever wins is going to be top dog in the societal pages until she’s buried.”

“What else?” 

“WE is hosting a charity gala in two months,” he said carefully. He didn’t know whether the rest of the Waynes knew Jason was back in town, and if not, why Jason didn’t want them to know. “For endangered species. Not just one, either. Apparently for all of them. There’s going to be an exhibit and play. It seems several special effects studios have been hired for it.”

Tim didn’t know what that was all about and it was only event he wished the Drakes were still worthy enough to be invited to. If only so he could see whatever spectacle was going to occur. 

And maybe to see Damian again. 

Jason was scowling so Tim moved on. 

“The Museum of art history is getting a few new paintings and statues. Apparently they’ve been donated anonymously and everyone is scrambling for a name.”

“So they know whether or not its worth matching up to whoever it is,” Jason said bitterly. 

He was right, so Tim said nothing about it. “All in all, things have been pretty quiet. Why do you want to know?”

“Curious.” He shoved the plate across the table, tapping a fingernail on the edge. “You’re skinny. Eat.”

“Thats your food,” Tim pointed out. 

“So? Not like I took a bite out of all of them. You won’t get cooties.”

“I’m not hungry.” 

“Might not be hungry, but you damn well need something to cushion all that caffeine. Eat.”

Tim was fairly sure he stomach lining was immune to the acid effects of his life elixir. But he didn’t think there was much point in refusing, it was jalapeño cheddar…

Taking a quarter that had not been bitten, squashed, or showered in chip debris, he nibbled at it and lifted a sardonic eyebrow.

“Oh, quit it. Its not like it’ll kill ya.”

“I could be allergic.”

“But you’re not.”

“I could be, you don’t know.” 

“If you were you would have rubbed it in my face.” The bells above the door jangled and Jasons too green gaze slid subtly towards it. The animation faded and he balled up the empty bag in his hand, throwing it over Tims head into the trash beside the door. “Looks like my break is over.”

“Oh. Okay.” The newcomer was at the counter, squinting at the board. Not suspicious so far as Tim could determine, and Jason seemed disinterested.

“Feel free to finish that off.” Standing and readjusting his hat, Jason looked down at him and seemed to hesitate. “Nice to see you, kid. You be safe going home, okay? This really ain’t the best neighborhood.”

“You too,” Tim said breezily. “Don’t talk to strangers or help anyone look for lost puppies.”

“You brat,” Jason muttered. 

When he walked by, he dragged the palm of his hand over Tims head, pulling his hair out of his face. By the time Tim smoothed it back down, the door was closed, the bells still clanging, and Jason was nowhere in sight.

Tim hadn’t had contact with Andromeda and the rest of her attic crew for years. The last he had heard she had been recruited by an underground virtual vigilante group and was destroying the lives and livelihoods of internet predators. He didn’t know what name she was flying under or whether she was using any moniker at all, but she had left behind access to her all her hard-won backdoors throughout city servers. Whether she had left the information for all her students and colleagues or just to Tim, he had never asked and would likely never know. 

Some of them had been discovered and closed, but the backdoor into the family court building was still open. 

Down the hall his dads TV was on, a talk show, it sounded like. Too loud for so late, but Tim hoped the walls were thick enough and their neighbors disinterested enough to ignore it. His laptop was already hot against his legs as he sat between piles of laundry he still had yet to fold, a sheet pulled over his head and tucked under his feet to form a personal sized privacy tent. Not that he thought his father was likely to wheel into his room, but some habits were not worth breaking. 

He didn’t usually offer his services for hire. Mostly because no one wanted to hire someone they had never met and would never be able to identify. People only cared for anonymity when it applied to them.

So those that were willing to hire his services were not the kind of people he wanted to work for. But beggars and people who had recently let hundreds of thousands of dollars slip through their grasp could not be choosers, and thus he lowered his standards.

He had been hired to retrieve records and any evidence of bribery from a family court judges computer. It had been shockingly simple; overconfidence and greed made any of his endeavors far easier than caution and moderation would. So in record time he had a packet all set to be sent to his client, a wealthy and newly divorced mother struggling to keep custody of her children against the force of her far wealthier husbands lawyers and amorality. 

It was an easy and tidy profit with a bonus upon prompt completion. And since Tim had made certain that the children were better off with their mother than their father, he did not feel too guilty. 

But Tim had stumbled across something interesting in the judges records. Something that he couldn’t help but prod at. 

The man had not been a family court judge his whole career. In fact, he seemed to have gotten his start in the in criminal court and had spent most of his judicial career overseeing moderate crimes. There was a faint hint of bribery in the older records, though nothing near as blatant as in his latest position. Probably due to a fear of more intense scrutiny. 

What caught Tims attention was the name Arthur Brown and the fact that there was hints of some kind of bribery at work during the mans case. 

Tim hadn’t spoken to Stephanie for… a year. Maybe more. When she stopped replying to his infrequent attempts to reach out, he’d considered himself dismissed. He had enough experience with that sort of method to recognize it. 

It had been painful to realize she had moved on, but they had only known each other for a few months. Barely any time at all, really. Certainly not long enough for there to be an expectation that their friendship would continue when they no longer attended the same school. So he’d consigned her to the same carefully curated corner of his mind as Batman and Robin, and Jason and Dick and Alfred and Bruce. Brief, bright memories he could recall whenever things became too bleak. 

But the timing of Arthur Browns arrest and court case coincided horribly, damningly with the weeks before his mothers death and the sudden silence from Stephanie took on a whole new meaning. 

What if she had needed him? What if those calls he’d ignored, had relegated to the bottom of his list of priorities, had been calls for help?

The judge had dealt with her fathers criminal case and so there was very little mention of Stephanie. Where was she and what if she was in trouble? He’d assumed she was safe, wherever she was. He always imagined her in that same school they’d met in, causing the same chaos wherever she went. 

Now he knew that her father was in prison, her mother was dead, and there was no hint of her whereabouts. 

He sent off the packet to his client and logged out of the family court systems, shoving his overheated laptop aside. Still curled under the sheet, he pulled out his phone and input a familiar number. 

It was disconnected. 

Pressing his forehead against the phone and not even caring about the greasy smears he would have to clean off late, he closed his eyes and breathed out. 

It appeared there was now something else he would have to make right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really any warnings here, beyond Jack being an awful parent and person. And maybe evidence of mental instability from Jason?
> 
> I'm soooo sorry! I tried so hard to put out a chapter last week but it was all ugly and I couldn't bear to! I figured out why though; I was trying to force the plot to progress in the way I wanted. But I cannot write any way but organically, so now there is yet another story-line that I tried to cut out, as evidenced by the last third of the chapter. Please bear with me.
> 
> I did make this a series and put up a different piece last week, though. So you can go read that too. 
> 
> Also, I made a twitter so I could let people know if there won't be any updates. Its PlotlessWanderer, same as here, because I am lazy :)
> 
> Comment if inclined and have a good week!


	22. Chapter 22

Tanya was due in five minutes and Tim was not prepared. 

The microwave was smoking, the alarm had been disabled via the jabbing of a ruler whilst clinging to the edge of the upper kitchen cabinets and balancing on the edge of the counter, and he had yet to clean up his fathers room. 

He’d forced open the window in the living and turned on the fan on the hall bath to hopefully create a cross-breeze. The wet towel he’d thrown over the microwave was only partially managing the smoke. It was a lot of chaos for the crime of heating coffee. 

Granted, he should have checked the bottom of the mug and found the foil sticker there, and he definitely should not have ignored the crackling once it started. But being sleep blurry and in the middle of brushing his teeth, he just hadn’t reacted quickly enough. 

“Tim!” His dad called. 

There was no way he’d be able to get every cleaned in time. 

“Timothy, get in here!”

Well, if there wasn’t time to clean up the evidence of his sins, then he would just have to conceal it. Grabbing the microwave into an awkward hug, he hurried to his room, calling a quick, “Just a minute!” Through his dads open door. 

By the time the microwave was wedged into his tiny closet there was a massive wet patch over the front of his shirt and he smelled like burnt coffee and melted plastic. 

“Tim!”

Hopping between piles of clothing, newspapers and discarded containers of take-out, Tim made it to the bathroom door, knocking quickly. “I’m here!”

“About time,” his dads voice rumbled. “Damn towel fell in the bath, get me another.”

“Right, just a sec.”

Back to his room at a run, he rummaged through the clean hamper tucked in the corner, dragging a towel from the depths with a grunt as the doorbell rang. He groaned; over all the chaos, he hadn’t heard the proximity alert from his phone. Wherever it had fallen.

For moment that he couldn’t spare, he just closed his eyes and leaned over the hamper, hands braced on the edges. 

It was a bad day preceded by a bad night and he needed to get a grip. 

The doorbell chimed again while his dad called his name. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, he ran back to his dad, handed the towel through the door and raced to the living room, looking around for any blatant evidence of incompetence. Other than a smear of water where the microwave once sat, it was clear. 

Pasting on a smile he opened the door.

“Hi! Sorry about that.”

Tanya looked him over and pursed her lips, painted a shimmering purple tinted red. “What happened to you, kiddo? Looking a little rough.”

“Oh you know, just one of those mornings.”

“I do know.” She stepped in, looking curiously at the open window. “Didn’t think that thing could open.”

“It didn’t think so either,” Tim muttered, looking resentfully at it. Years worth of paint on the trim had been effective glue. “Dads still getting ready. Will you be able to make the appointment in time?”

“Yeah, of course.”

A thud and a curse drifted down the hall and Tanya raised her eyebrows. “He need help?”

“No! No, he’s fine, just in a hurry.” The last thing he wanted was to subject Tanya to his dads room before he could get it cleaned up. Usually he was able to have everything ready before she arrived, and she never went into his room. “I’ll, uh, just see how its going.”

“You know that’s actually my job, right?” Tanya pointed out. 

“To help him when he needs it, but I don’t think he does, today.”

“Tim.”

He stopped and turned back to face her, tense already. 

“Come here kid. Have a seat.” When he didn’t move, she sat herself down on the futon couch and patted the space beside her. Reluctantly, Tim dragged himself over and settled down on the edge. From this angle he could see two throw pillows on the floor. 

“Alright. I know this might not be my business, but someone obviously needs to have a talk with you.”

“I don’t think—“

“Ah ah, listen for a minute.” She crossed her arms, leaning back and frowning at the window as she ordered her thoughts. One finger tapped arrhythmically against her elbow. “I know how hard it is, losing a parent. And when the one you still got has problems. Feels like you owe it to em’ to keep it all together all the time. Right?”

Tim shrugged. He understood she was trying to help, but she didn’t have all the information. He really did owe it to his dad, because their current problems were all his fault. He remembered it every time he caught sight of his dad in that wheelchair, alone and withered up and aimless. 

Tanya sighed. “Its not your job to take care of him, Tim. He’s an adult, and disability or not, he can take care of himself. And when he can’t that’s where I come in. Its literally my job, I’m not kidding about that. Don’t think I don’t see how there’s nothing for me to do when we come back from appointments. And don’t think I don’t know that’s all you’re doing.”

“Sorry,” Tim mumbled. 

“Thats not the point. You should be focusing on school and your friends and growing up slow.” Her hand was warm and heavy as it came to rest against his shoulder, elegant fingers with rough palms. “You grow up too fast, you spend the rest of your life tired. Trust a woman who knows, okay?”

He nodded, eyes fastened on the pillows on the floor. 

Tanya sighed, released him, and dug a lollipop from the pocket of her scrub top. “Here.”

Pink lemonade. Nice. He unwrapped it and stuck the wrapper in his pocket, too used to taking all evidence with him. Boys scouts had nothing on him. 

“Thanks.” 

Leaning back against the futon, she groaned. “Ah, its gonna be a day. Can feel it in my bones.”

Tim made an agreeing noise around the candy. No matter how he looked at it, this day was going to be fraught from start to end. 

His father rolled out of the hallway, dressed and showered and shaved, sparing only a single distracted glance at Tanya and Tim before heading to the door without a word. 

Tanya raised an eyebrow, a subtle purse of her lips the only hint at her annoyance. 

“Looks like we’re off then. You gonna be home when we get back?”

“Probably not.” Not if all went according to plan.

“Alright. See you tomorrow kid and remember what I said.”

“I will. Thank you Tanya.” 

He walked them to the elevator and called out a goodbye to his dad, and then rushed back to clean. He had somewhere to be, after all.

It had taken three days of searching and all his ingenuity but Tim finally had a location. It wasn’t a home address, and he’d had no luck gaining access to unsealed records or any hint as to who was taking care of her. But there had been court mandated therapy sessions and that, at least, was not so well hidden.

Still. Tim was a stalker. He knew this about himself. He was a stalker, with a poor understanding of boundaries, but staking out a family therapy center… it left a bad taste. 

He was still going to do it, though. 

It was in the lower two levels of a medical complex in a nicer business neighborhood, with lots of pediatricians and obstetric centers and a fertility clinic on the top floor. Unsurprisingly, the little park across the street was well maintained and clean, with a playground and a lot of trees. There was also a fountain which was where Tim planted himself, with a direct line of sight to the front door across the street. 

The schedule for the group therapy sessions were posted in the office on cheerful yellow fliers. There were all sorts of groups; groups for kids with substance abuse issues, groups for abuse victims, groups for kids that had lost their parents to death or to prison. Stephanie was both, now. 

He had one of the fliers in his jacket pocket. Folded over and over again until it was impossibly tight and small, as though he could fold it out of existence. 

The icecream he’d bought from a cart at the other side of the park was melting all down his arm, streaks of lurid artificial pink and blue. He didn’t even like bubblegum. 

Steph did. 

Licking the worst of it off his wrist and slurping it from the soggy cone, he threw it into the caged garbage can a couple meters away. Eyes on the front of the building he swung his hand behind him and swirled it in the fountain. 

At 2:24 a group of people came out of the building. Teenagers, adults and a few younger kids. Tim peered through the small crowd and there she was. 

He jumped off the fountain and jogged to the sidewalk. To cross the street he’d have to go up or down the lengths of several buildings to a crosswalk or risk getting flattened. But if he did, he might miss her. Choose the wrong one. 

As he stood there strategizing, she looked up and he could tell when she saw him. Recognition spilled over her face and dropped her mouth open, had her gaping for a long moment. The earphone she had been readjusting tumbling out of her ear and swung on its neon green cord. 

“Tim?” 

He might not be able to hear it over the sound of passing cars and over the distance between them, but he knew what his name looked like. 

“Tim!” 

In defiance of common sense and self preservation and a plethora of laws, she sprinted straight into traffic. 

Horns blared and Tim jolted forward, heart rocketing from a merely anxious pace to outright anxiety. A strangled wheeze came out of his throat as she was nearly clipped, avoiding it by deftly hopping onto the hood of a sedan and sliding across its surface, the drivers screaming profanity not even enough to draw her attention. 

Purple Doc Martens thudded on the sidewalks as she hurled herself out of traffic and onto Tim in a full body hug that nearly sent them right to the ground.

“Tim! God, I thought you were gone! I thought I’d never see you again!”

“You’re crazy,” Tim said flatly, the sight of her dancing with death on the hood of a car still spinning behind his eyes. His arms slowly circled around her. Fingers anchoring themselves on the oversized T-shirt and breath just sucked out of him in a deflating sigh. 

She was twitching and shaking and bouncing in his arms with excitement. Exactly the same as he remembered. 

“Where have you been? I watched what happened with that asshole Dorrance on the news and I tried to find you but you weren’t anywhere and your phone was disconnected and you weren’t online and like, your always online? So I went to your house but it was still all wrapped and plastic and I finally found Dorr-ass’s address but you weren’t there either and someone finally told me you were with the FBI or something and that you were in witness protection or something and that I shouldn’t keep looking for you because you were safe and that I pro-probably wouldn’t see— you again—“

Peeling away as much as he could, he slapped his hands on her shoulders and shook. “Geez, Steph, take a breath.”

Giggling wetly, she did. As obnoxiously and noisily as possible, exhaling over his face. At least it just smelled like gum.

“Ew,” he grumbled and grinned at her. 

“Agh! I missed you, you little dork!” Arms locked around him with strangling force once again, she rocked them side to side and hummed all high pitched and happy. Abruptly jerking away, she grabbed his hand and dragged him behind her into the park. “You better tell me everything that’s been going on. Or I’ll kick your ass!”

Watching the way her fishtail braid swung between her shoulders Tim realized that either she was a little taller than him now or her boots had even thicker soles than they looked like. 

Plopping down not he edge of the fountain almost exactly where Tim had been, sitting sideways with one leg tucked beneath her, she dragged him down across from her. The loose swinging earphone rolled into the water but she didn’t seem to notice. 

“Are you okay? You look like shit.”

Tim snorted. “Gee, thanks, Stephanie, you look amazing too, whatever have you done to your hair? Its doing wonders for your bone structure.”

She slapped his knee. Lightly. “Stop it and just tell me! I was really worried about you, you know.”

He didn’t know. Maybe he should have? It simply hadn’t occurred to him that she would think about him much at all. That she would forget him as time went on. He couldn’t tell her that.

“I’m okay. We, uh, my dad and I, I mean, spent a couple months in protective custody. They set us up with new phones and numbers when we left.”

“What about before that? When the news hit, I read all about everything. My room was full of newpapers, it looked like a hamster house, so I know you lived with that fucking bastard for months. Did he hurt you?” 

Her eyes were narrow and sharp and angry. She’d left her hand on his leg but her other one was clenching and unclenching against the tiles of the fountain ledge. 

“No, of course—“

“And don’t lie to me.”

Tim winced. “Alright, alright. He didn’t hurt me, not really. Not until that last night, before he fell.”

As it often did when he remembered, his arm ached.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Steph growled. 

“He’d basically dead already,” Tim pointed out. From a purely intellectual standpoint, her level of rage was fascinating. “The doctors can’t decide whether or not to declare him brain-dead.”

“That just makes him an easy target,” Steph muttered. With visible effort, she forced herself to settle, forced herself to breath out and smile. “And you know me. I’m super lazy. I like things easy.”

“I never made things easy for you,” he pointed out, recalling all of the many, many times she had begged to copy his homework. 

“Yeah. You never did. Why do I keep you around again?” 

He shrugged. 

“Anyway!” She scooted closer until her knee bashed against his. “Tell me, tell me! Where have you been? Why haven’t you called me?”

“Your phone number was different too.”

She grimaced. “Ah. Okay, point. But still!”

“I tried to find you…” He hadn't planned to be… completely honest with her. In fact, he hadn’t planned to be seen at all. Only to find out where she lived, if she was safe and happy. Its not as though he wanted to intrude on her life. 

He had never imagined she would be so happy to see him. And with her beaming at him like a high focus laser, all but glowing, he suddenly felt he owed her honesty at the very least. 

“I asked around. Or, I looked into things. Heard about you going here.”

He kept his eyes on the water and the coined flashing distorted and bright under it. 

“Oh. That.” He heard her take a deep breath, could hear the careless shrug in her voice without needing to look up and confirm it. “Thats was like, a court mandated thing. I had to attend therapy with after my dad finally got busted. My foster mom went with a couple times. Its actually not bad.” She slapped his knee. “So you were waiting for me? Staking out the place?”

“…yes.”

She laughed. “Thats great! Mister Detective.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Nawww. You’re fine. Like, how else were you supposed to find me?” Then she slapped repeatedly on his leg like some demented otter, all but vibrating again. No one had every touched him as much as Steph. “Anyway! Tell me how you are and where’ve been and what you’ve been doing. I’m dying to know! Looking, my pulse is stuttering as we speak!”

Tim raised an eyebrow at her outstretched wrist and valiantly restrained the twitch of his lips. 

“I haven’t been doing much, really. Dads in physical therapy and we moved to a new apartment recently. Its nice.” And, because he knew her priorities, added, “There’s a good burger place about two blocks away.”

“Ooooh, score! My place is awesome, but the neighborhood is super lacking in good food. Theres like a sushi place but I don’t like fish? My foster mom doesn’t understand that, she eats there like once a week. I tried to show her the value of a good chili dog and she just didn’t get it.”

“So you’re okay then? You like where you are?” Tim asked carefully. 

Steph dragged her skittering gaze back to him and off of the pigeons she’d been staring at and smiled. It was one of her smaller, softer ones, a little goofy but genuine. Not that her smiles weren’t always genuine in some way. 

“Yeah. Its… its just really good. I didn’t think it would be good at all. You know, I used to think the very worst thing that could possibly happen would be going in the system? All the others kids I know had a super awful time in it, and some of em’ even say it was way worse than when they’d lived with their family. So I thought, that every happens, I’ll get the hell out.” She scratched her nose with a pink paint nail and laughed quietly. “I guess I got lucky.”

“I’m glad,” Tim said. And for once he initiated contact and awkwardly patted the back of her hand. She of course made it easier and better by turning it over and slotting their fingers together. 

“So am I. I’m glad your dad made it.”

“Thanks.”

They sat there quietly for a while. Traffic growled past and pedestrians faded in and out of view, walking to destinations unknown. Tim tipped his head back and looked at the blue sky and smiled. It was good. It was so very good to have Steph an arms-length away and happy. 

They parted ways too soon for either of their preferences, but Steph was expected home within the hour and Tim still had things to do. She didn’t volunteer her address or the name of her foster mom and Tim didn’t pry. He wanted to, wanted to know every detail, but he forced himself to let it lie. Steph was happy and seemed to be thriving and that would have to be enough for the moment. 

They did exchange their new numbers and Tim spent the multiple bus rides to the opera house being bombarded by texts and at least a hundred bizarre gifs. There were also an assortment of cat and dog pictures, taking without skill but a great deal of enthusiasm.

He didn’t visit the place often. Every time he did he remembered Dorrance and that never an experience he sought out. 

Since the attempted robbery and subsequent discovery of the Prohibition era secret tunnel, the opera house had expanded its repertoire to include guided tours through the tunnel from its beginning in the billiards room to its exit in the basement of a brewpub ten blocks away. So far it had proved exceptionally profitable for both parties. 

This meant that the tunnels were frequently occupied. The flickering, dramatic lighting strung along the ceiling of the tunnel were still bright enough to easily see the faces of people and there were cameras positioned at the beginning and end of the tunnel. 

Tim had taken the guided tours several times, motivated by morbid curiosity and but also but the intellectual interest that his parents had ensured he developed. Or that they had had least encouraged. 

It was during his third tour that he split off from the main group and progressed at his own pace, inspecting the walls slowly and thoroughly with all the techniques he had heard his parents mention and he had learned in the hope of someday performing them himself, someday. 

It was how he had stumbled across a portion of wall three feet high and two and half feet wide midway through the tunnel. It was set down low beneath the sightline of the people who routinely walked the route. All but invisible to anyone who did not have a trained eye and time to spare utilizing it. Tim had only noticed the strangely symetrcal crack running up the stones because the crisp edges that must have once sat flush together had been chipped and crumbled inward over time. 

From there it was simply a matter of searching to find the equally hidden latch release three yards further up the tunnel, again placed low. Beneath notice. 

That discovery had been the first time Time had felt like himself in a long, long time. The first time he had felt that familiar flare of excitement that had once been the only reason he bothered getting out of bed at all. 

The door did not open all the way. Barely a third of the way, in fact, but Tim was small enough to slip through the crack. It had been impenetrably dark, the air heavy and thick and cold in his lungs. But it didn’t even occur to him that if he became trapped no one would know to look for him. That if he someone was injured he would not receive any help at all. 

It was too exciting to waste time dwelling on anything but the hungry need to Know.

He’d used the flashlight on his phone and discovered a treasure. 

It had clearly been a speakeasy. One for the elite, judging by the extravagance still clinging to the walls and floors. Dust sat an inch thick on every surface and even Tims most careful movements sent up plumes of it all around. 

Genuine crystal chandeliers hung from the massive beams holding up untold tons of earth and city buildings. The wallpaper was still vivid and rich, having never been touched by the sun, only the edges curling up at the corners. The scones set into the walls handcrafted and gilt trimmed, the bar a piece of art unto itself, carved from redwood that must have been millennia old. 

There had still be crystal bottles of liquor on the shelves, empty tumblers on the tables and fur coat through over the back of one chair. 

Every square inch dripped with history. 

It wasn’t the ancient civilizations and archeological digs that his parents loved. But standing there, Tim imagined he finally understood what it had felt like for them, those times they had unearthed something forgotten and glorious. Held history in their hands. 

Tim had spent nineteen hours buried under the city exploring the speakeasy. He’d discovered that it had once had rudimentary electric lighting and plumbing, had two private rooms and a storage room almost as large as the bar front itself. An antique microphone had still sat on the stage, its cord a thick coil around its base. And the photographs… so many grainy black and white prints on the walls, perfect snapshots of an era long gone. 

Tim had returned home the next morning walking on air. It didn’t occur to him until later, when he bolted up from a dead sleep, that he had not only unearthed history. He had also potentially found himself sanctuary. 

There were no records of the place. He had scoured every document in every collection he could weasel access to, had discreetly prodded the many historical societies on the east coast and even followed along when a self proclaimed psychic led the tour one night. She had passed by the door without a glance at it.

No one knew it was there except Tim. 

The next time he visited the place he explored it with a new motivation. 

The wiring and the plumbing meant that making the plate habitable was possible. The location meant that he would be able to tap into the opera house and all the other large buildings through the neighborhood and draw from their resources without being noticed. He could probably even find some way to get internet. The only issue was the lack of discreet entrance, but it had sorted itself out nicely. 

There was an oversized dumbwaiter in the storage room. Tim didn’t know where it went, beyond up, and so had strapped some climbing cleats to his shoes, a headlamp to his head and climbed up. 

the shaft had buckled in in a few places, but it was still more than wide enough for Tim. Unsurprisingly it had ended at a dead-end. Tim had fasted a GPS beacon to rotted wooden door at the top and shimmied back down. 

The top opening of the dumbwaiter was located in the basement of professional laundry service, in what had once been a secret room but had been discovered and immediately put to use as a storage closet. Tim had dug through two layers of drywall, shiplap and finally a false wall that had once concealed the dumbwaiter door. 

From there it had taken only a little bit of effort and time to fashion his own false wall and replace the door to the shaft with something sturdier. Several dozen motion sensors and boobytraps later, he had his own personal entrance to his own personal haven. 

The place sparkled now, electricity humming audibly in the crushing quiet of the underground. The plumbing was not quite so trustworthy, but Tim didn’t mind. He had a mini fridge he’d carried down the shaft in pieces and reassembled, a charging station for all his tech and a gym set up in the corner of the storage room. He was only able to spend a few hours there every week, needing to return home everyday evening for his dad, but every moment spent there wound up being the best of his week. 

He found he couldn’t bring himself to touch much of the speakeasy itself; instead he set up shot in the storage room, his worktables and stations set up in the center of the room where it wouldn’t disturb the brittle shelves and old barrels lining the walls. 

The only disturbance he had made to the speakeasy was claiming a corner of the smallest private room, where he built a nest out of old pallets and an exorbitant amount of pillows and second hand duvets. 

Getting off the bus several blocks away from the opera house itself, he made his way to the laundry, climbing through his usual steam vent and making his way down to his haven. 

His feet thumped against the frigid stone floor fo the storage room. Stretching and groaning, he went to the mats in the corner and began his usual exercise routine. 

The guai sat on a poorly made stand in a place of honor at the edge of the mats, what had once been a velvet curtain he’d stolen from the opera house garbage (then snuck into the pile of similar material in the laundry for a free professional clean) thrown over it. 

He rarely had the opportunity to carry them during his night time excursion now. He needed to travel lighter, with more space reserved for any spoils he managed to get, and so they spent most of their time in the speakeasy. He was progressing slowly on the collapsable versions due to a lack of materials and time but he was hoping for a usable prototype by the end of the month. 

Well. Hoped for. 

The guai still fit easy in his hands and the sound of them cutting through the air reassuringly comforting. He fell into a kata that was too quick and ambitious without a warmup, but it gave a purpose to the excessive energy clouding his thoughts. A clear head was worth a few days of aching. 

Stephanie was alright. It was better than he could have hoped and he certainly hadn’t spent much time on that recently. The persistent need to know where she was and with who was hard to ignore, but he had already found her via a method that she would have been well within her right to smack him for. And considering the times she had sat him down and informed him of her boundaries and what she would do to him if he crossed them… 

She had been happy to see. She had wanted to see him. He couldn’t remember ever having someone want him around and now that he knew he didn’t think he could give it up so easily. Not even for precious information. 

At least he knew she was safe. 

Shiva was the most prevalent issue. 

He frowned, eyes unfocused, and flipped a guai high overhead, hooking it out of the air with the other as it came down. There was the crack of wood against wood, and then he flipped it over the back of his shoulder and into his hand.

A false trail would only last for so long. Shiva was primarily an assassin and the best in that trade, but Tim had no doubt she was an equally accomplished bounty hunter. If she was looking and had been looking for as long as it appeared she had, then she could discover him at any time. 

But trying to stop her himself would be a waste of time and effort. If he wanted to keep his anonymity he would have better luck going for the source. 

How to go about it, though… Shiva certainly would not keep her pay in the account through which she received it, and it had been so long now since she accepted the contract that he would be unable to pinpoint which was for the contract on him. And the clients confidentiality would be even more protected. Finding who it was through Shiva would be impossible. 

He threw a guai against the wall, mind elsewhere but muscle memory more than enough to make up for inattention. It struck the stone and bounced back in an arch, falling into his hand once more. 

The only option was retracing his own steps. Revisiting every aspect of that day and composing a list of everyone that would have a reason to hire Shiva of all people to find him. She had a history of turning on her employees on little more than a whim. Whoever it was was either overconfident or determined enough to consider it worth the risk. 

He fell into a resting stance, sweat turning cold on his skin in the perpetual chill of the storage room.

He didn’t want to do it. He spent a significant amount of energy making sure he didn’t have to think about it. Theft on that level went beyond mere crime; it was an act of destruction. He knew the Gotham, and perhaps more specifically the Gotham elite, were irrevocably changed. Families that had ruled since the city’s founding were now little more than powerless socialites. Companies that had built up the city industry were splintered or gone entirely. Newcomers from Metropolis and New York and even foreign nations were fighting to established a foothold in the vacuum. Even now the power dynamic of the entire city was in a state of flux. 

And Tim had done that. 

Sometimes he thought it would be better if he simply admitted his crimes and accepted whatever punishment was due him. What stopped him was the bone deep knowledge that his father would hate him even more than all the victims who had never even seen his face, and that was a circumstance he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear. 

He sat on the mats in a wide stretch and wiped down the guai. 

Finding who had hired Shiva was only the beginning but it was all he could focus on for now. Afterwards… well, afterwards he would have to figure out what to do about it. 

Calmer, he racked the guai and went to his station. The setup was still relatively bare bones with a terrible overheating issues, but it was better than using a laptop topside. And he had already made a few inroads into accessing some satellites, particularly some of LexCorp’s. Cracking his knuckles and neck and shaking out the aches, he settled in. 

Time to knock on some servers and see what came loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No TWs, I don't think. If you spotted something please let me know.
> 
> I planned to cut out both Steph and the speakeasy hideout because I didn't want to make the fic too bloated. And, like it always does when I try to write according to a plan, the whole fic just stalled completely. So everything I tried to cut is now back! And bigger! 
> 
> Comment if inclined and I hope you enjoyed! Have a good week :)


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs at bottom of chapter

The building was six stories of partially crumbled brick, boarded windows and graffiti. It leaned slightly towards its neighbor like an exhausted commuter on a night-bus and the ancient hazard tape and the Danger! And Do Not Enter signs were undisturbed. Even in Gotham people would hesitate to set foot somewhere so clearly on the edge of collapse. All the buildings around it were in only slightly better repair.

It was the perfect place to stay out of sight. 

Tim sat on the railing of a fire-escape of the apartment across the street, legs dangling as he watched the second story window with its every so faintly less weathered boards. In the window at his back were the three cats he’d made hasty friends with and their stares were strangely reassuring. He looked briefly over his shoulder and smiled at the sight of one lying on its back, baggy stomach bouncing as it huffed the catnip he had slipped between the gap of window and sill. The other two were content to sit in loaf like positions and peer at him with slow blinking green eyes. 

He’d already snapped a quick picture but he took another for good measure and sent it to Steph. Before reconnecting with her, he’d never noticed just how many pets lived in Gotham. So far Steph was still winning Cutest Sighting of the week, but this might knock her down a few pegs. 

He still didn’t care for animals for the most part, but he was developing a greater appreciation of them.

Refocusing on the task at hand, Tim frowned. 

Information was thin on the ground and on the net. Time had passed and people had moved on or forgotten or deleted much of the information that could have helped him find Shiva’s employer. He had been forced to resort to actually physically talking to people to get even then faintest hint of a lead. 

According to an information broker in the diamond district (who he had not paid but who’s apartment he had gently burgled like the frugal and vaguely remorseful criminal he had become), Shiva had been working closely with an unnamed and generally unnoticed organization that had been drifting in and out of Gotham for the past year. They never stayed long and had yet to be photographed, but the rumors said they appeared to be functioning as support for Shiva during her search. 

And this had been the site of the most recent sighting, a mere three days old. 

Tim was hoping it wasn’t merely a coincidence. Hoped that this was a base or stash site or anything concrete he could use. All he needed was one good lead. It was all he ever needed. 

The building remained dark and the street silent as it had been for the past four hours.

Tim stood on the railing, brushing down the back of his cargo shorts as the wind swept up the canyon between the buildings, driving a pair of plastic bags up the sidewalk. Rolling his shoulders to resettle the guai resting between them under the concealing bulk of his hoodie, he stepped off. 

Slowing the plummet with a few grabs at the railings as he passed, he dropped onto the sidewalk and sprinted across the street. It was work of a minute to pop loose the end of one board on the lower window and squeeze through the gap. 

There was never real darkness in the city. Light always seeped in from somewhere as surely as radiation. Tim waited for his eyes to adjust and grimaced at the scent of rotting wood and mold. 

The room was high ceilinged but that was the only good thing that could be said about it. The walls were stripped down to bare framing and dead electrical wires, insulation oozing out like the fluffy guts of a disemboweled teddy bear. Filth heavy cobwebs hung from the corners and he could hear the scuttling of rats coming from above and below and all around. 

Frankly, he preferred the cavernous creepiness of abandoned warehouses. If anyone was using this place for anything then they had no class. 

He walked through the room and out into a hallway that was even darker. The last iteration fo the building and been an apartment complex and the few doors that remained had painted numbers on them. The brass mailslots had long ago been torn out and scavenged, as had the ceiling lights; only ribbons of frayed ancient cords hung from the ceiling. 

Other than the sound of vermin and the occasional groan of a structure on its last structural legs, it was silent. 

At the end of the hall were the crumbled remains of a staircase and a gaping black hole in the wall beside where the elevators doors had once been. Scavenged just like everything else. 

Tim couldn’t help but grudgingly approve; as a secure location it served its purpose. No way to get to the upper floors except through the windows facing the open street or the elevator shaft. And while Gotham had an unusually high percentage of free runners and urban athletes, this was not a neighborhood or structure that would appeal to them. 

The shaft was too dark so he pulled a glow stick bracelet from a pocket, cracked it and fastened it around his wrist. It cast a weak, ugly green glow but it was more than bright enough for climbing up the shaft. 

He spent a moment listening and an even longer minute squinting upwards. He knew shiva well enough to know she would not work with fools and so he was unsurprised to spot the wires criss crossing the expanse of the shaft. They were nearly indistinguishable from the spiderwebs, just a few shades too dark. 

Difficult, he mused. At least he was still small enough to fit through the gaps. 

It was slow and precise work and he made more noise than was preferable, but he reached the top floor without tripping a single wire. He didn’t know what the consequences would have been, but had no doubt they were deadly. 

The upper floors were in even worse repair than the lower ones. He could see the brickwork through the barebones walls and even glimpses of the street or neighboring buildings where bricks had been knocked out. A draft kept the dust on the floor in constant motion and erased his footprints. His grudging good opinion of the place as a decent hiding place rose further. 

Most of the dividing walls were gone entirely and the ceiling sagged dangerously low. Skirting debris and water rotted spots of the floor, he made his way to the far corner where some walls still stood. 

Easing through an opening, he lifted his wrist overhead and peered into the dark. It took a moment for what he saw to make sense. 

Black tarps hung from the ceiling and were taped to the floor with equally black duct tape. They formed a large cube against the corner of the room and he blinked at it, a creeping feeling of unease turning his empty stomach. There was as single slit between the tarps that wasnt heavily sealed by tape and Tim walked over to it uncertainly. The green glow from his wrist smeared over the tarp like dirty neon. 

There were no traps that he could see and so he slipped through the gap.

The space inside was a was a twelve by twelve cube and most of it was taken over with white boards and tables weighted down beneath computers and various equipment, including military grade frequency scanners. Three cots were set inches apart in a corner, neatly made and uncomfortably just to look at, with gallons of water and duffle bags at the foot of each. 

What pulled all his attention like a hook in his gut was the large Gotham map fixed to the wall across from him. Heavily marked in multiple colors of ink, it was a timeline. And the locations at which he had accessed the League as well as the disposal site of his equipment heavily and clearly circled. 

He drifted closer, heart hammering.

It was a history of his movements from the time of his first communication with the League to his last. It was incomplete and in some cases incorrect, but it was more evidence than he thought he left behind. 

There were photos secured to the white boards. Strangers and some people he had seen or heard of in passing. And at the bottom corner that seemed to indicate the least relevant, a picture of his mother. He wanted to take it away or hide it. Retroactively erase her from the minds of whoever had considered her a suspect. But tampering with anything here would only alert them to his presence which would make monitoring them difficult, if not impossible. 

He forced his attention elsewhere. 

The stacks of paper were haphazard at first glance, but Tim recognized the system; one paper or scrap out of place would be evidence of tampering. He’d used the same method several times himself when he was a kid, before he met Andromeda and learned how to hide things behind firewalls and failsafes. 

Most of the writing was in a language he didn’t know and he took multiple pictures with his phone. He wished briefly for his camera, tucked safe in an all weatherproof bag into decorative chimney several miles away.  
He stared at the computers for a moment, fingers itching. But he didn’t recognize the make and he didn’t have the time to try and crack the security on them. 

The cots were the last and he circled the edge of them carefully. Only one of the duffle bags was left unzipped and he poked at it with his foot until it gaped open wider. Dark clothing, a few pouches. The smell of weapons polish drifted from it. 

More bounty hunters, probably. Perhaps assassins like Shiva? All he could confirm at the moment was that this was a base of operations and they were far closer to discovering him than he’d assumed. 

There was no hint who had hired any of them. 

He slipped back out of the tarp room and walked to the other end of the upper floor. He picked a toppled beam leaning against the wall and tucked a tiny camera into the split through the length of it, prodding the spiderweb he’d disturbed back around it, leaving just enough of an opening to get a relatively clear picture. 

He had been in the building for over twenty minutes. Better to leave as quickly as possible, he decided, and went back down the shaft. It was even harder going backwards through the wires and by the time he reached the bottom his skin was tacky with sweat. 

All the was left was retracing his footsteps and carefully smudging out the footprints he had left behind. 

He lingered out in the street, staring at the building. Then he pulled up his hood and went home. 

Tim sat in limp discomfort in the waiting room chair, its plastic upholstery squeaking every time he dared to shift. 

The room was decorated in the same bland, soulless manner of most medical facilities; beige and palm tree prints and ugly tables covered in out of date magazines. The blinds were closed and the air stuffy and the receptionist was dozing into her own hands at the front desk. 

Trying to keep awake, Tim read the charts on the wall for the fourth time. 

His dad had switched around his PT appointment without tell Tim or Tanya. Different days and three hours later than usual. Tim had been woken up from his two hour power nap to his father blearily informing him of the change. 

It had been a close call, time wise and Tim was still reeling from the rush to call a handicap car service, recharge the wheelchair and help his father get ready. At least the place was close to their apartment. 

The intercom buzzed and the receptionist roused enough to toggle it on, listening to the static rich message and yawning before looking at Tim. 

“You with Mr Drake?”

Tim bounced to his feet and hurried to the desk. “Yes, I am. Is something wrong?”

“No, nothings wrong.” She pressed a button and the lock on the door leading to the back beeped. “Just go straight down the hall to the main room. Your dads there.”

“Okay, thanks.”

And his dad was there, not that the man noticed his arrival. He was seated on a low, padded table, legs stretched out in front of his and drenched in sweat. A woman in scrubs knelt in front of him and braced the bottom of his feet. 

“Great, just keep applying pressure, as much you can. Push back, push, push, push… and… rest. Excellent, Jack!”

“Excruciating, more like,” his dad panted. But his tone was amused and Tim stared. 

The woman laughed and patted his ankle. “It always is. And its not going to get any easier. But I swear it’ll be worth it.”

She must have caught glimpse of Tim from the corner of her eye because he swiveled in place, still on the floor and grinned at him. “Hi! You must be Tim.”

Blond hair pulled back in a high pony tail, brown eyes twinkling, she took him off guard for a moment and he could only stare, belatedly remembering to nod. 

“This man didn’t even mention he had a son until today!” She said brightly and swatted Jacks leg. She stood smoothly. “A more tightlipped man I have never met. Anyway, I’m Dana, your dads primary therapist. Its lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Tim mumbled as she shook his hand. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

“My pleasure, I assure you.” She crossed her arms and cocked her head and for a shiver of deja vu made Tim blink, another blonds attitude and mannerisms superimposing over hers. “So how old are you Tim?”

“I’m thirteen.”

“No, really?” She laughed again. “You know how people are always going on about the good old days and they remember how it was when they were teens? Not me. I swear I don’t remember anything but scary movies and bad hair. Everything else,” she swept a hand through the air, “is a blur.”

Tim smiled back, scrambling for something to say. Around her elbow he could see his dad watching them, face set and brows lowered. It was a familiar expression and it was somewhat steadying in its familiarity. Apparently it was important that Tim make a good impression. 

He knew how to do that.

His smile broadened, his shoulders loosened and he met her eyes with the kind of confident, open interest that had won him allies from the time he could toddle. 

“He’s talked about you too. Though he did say you were pretty, wow, he should have given some warning!”

Dana gasped delightedly. “Charmer! Certainly didn’t learn it from your old man though. I swear he only communicated through grunts the first two appointments.” She looked over her shoulder and snorted. “Caveman.”

“Grr,” his dad rumbled. 

Hallucinations were a strong possibility. He was working on a mere two hours of sleep out of forty and that last pop tart he’d had had a bit of melted wrapper stuck to the bottom. Maybe it was even a fever dream. All he could decisively say was that it was extremely unsettling and he did not like it. 

There was strange sensation at the base of his throat. Tight and twisting. He watched as Dana strolled back over and the way his dads smile widened in direct proportion to the diminishing distance between them and he couldn’t… couldn’t understand the feeling. What it was and why it was there and why his skin crawled as his dad took her hand and swung it side to side. 

Dana laughed and lifted a brow as she patted his hand with her free one before tugging it loose. When her gaze swung back to Tim he was barely able to reestablish his own smile. 

“So, Tim. Bet you're wondering why I called you back here.”

“I’m dying to know,” Tim said brightly and came closer. Even though the unsettled feeling lingered. 

“Well, I just learned that Jack here hasn’t been doing his at home exercises.”

Tim didn’t even bother looking at his dad. Throughout the many appointments and agencies and therapists, his father had never once followed any at home directions. Tim had tried, the first few times, but every attempt seemed to send his father spiraling further and he had finally left well enough alone. He waited for his dad to snap at Dana, make some cutting comment that would have her flinching back or bristling in offense. 

Shockingly, his dad only sighed and shrugged. “What can I say? I’m no masochist.”

“No, what you are is lazy,” Dana said gravely. Her voice softened slightly. “Or at the very least disorganized. I can only do so much, you know. We won’t make any progress unless we both starting pulling our weight.”

Tim crossed his arms with his hands tucked in tight, waiting for the explosion. Instead his dad grimaced and… nodded?

“Alright, alright.”

“I’m not kidding. You want to be on your feet by the end of the year you need to crack down on yourself and work for it.”

“I will.”

Dana stared at him, lips pursed. “Swear?”

“I swear,” his dad said with a laugh. 

“Great!” She bustled to the side of the room and began digging through a battered filing cabinet, taking out long exercise bands and stuffing them in a mesh bag. “Sorry about that, Tim. Half of my job is nagging people. Anyway!” She slammed the cabinet shut and bounced back to him. “I made a schedule for your dad to follow and here are some more replacement bands since he lost the last ones. Now, he can do most of these himself but here’s a chart that has the ones he could benefit having a partner for.”

Tim accepted the paper she handed over, skimming it quickly. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. The last one he’d brought home had been torn in half and stuffed in his dads wastebasket. A slanted sideways look at his dad provided no insight on what the fate of this one would be. 

“I know its not exactly what you want to do with your afternoons,” Dana was saying,” but it would be a big help.”

“Of course, I don’t mind.” Folding the paper into a compact square he tucked it into his back pocket.

“Thanks! Your dad says your a busy guy, always off somewhere or other. But this won’t take more than a half hour out of your day and its super simple.”

“I’m happy to do,” Tim reiterated. His insides jolted to hear that his dad talked about him. That his dad had noticed Tims comings and goings. He risked a warmer smile and squished the bag of bands in his hands. “I did gymnastics for years so I know how to do some of this already. I can walk dad through it.”

“Really? Thats awesome. I did skating for a while when I lived in Toronto. God, I was awful, but I loved it. You ever compete?”

“A few times,” Tim said. 

Dana grinned wolfishly. There was a small gap between her teeth and a tiny scar in the cleft of her chin. “And how’d you do?”

Tim thought of the ribbons and gold plated medals, lost somewhere during the first move when his mother was still alive. They had sat in a box in a storage closet from the day he received them and he had never looked at them again. “I did okay.”

“His mother let him do all kinds of useless things,” his dad broke in. He laughed once, loud and short as he shook his head. “Boy even took ballet. Isn’t that right, Timothy?”

Tim ducked his head. His dad had considered most of his extracurriculars embarrassing and emasculating and rarely brought them up. He wondered that he was doing so now.

“I swear sometimes she thought he was a girl,” his dad barreled on. “Ballet.”

Dana’s brow scrunched. “Now Jack, ballet and gymnastics are both extremely physically demanding. Anyone who does them are athletes. I’ve certainly treated a lot of both and they were some of the toughest, most determined patients I ever met.” 

“Of course. It was just a joke, I’m sorry.”

“Hmm.” She glanced at Tim. “You better be.”

“We should probably get going,” Tim said and walked over to collect his dads chair, left by the wall near the hallway door. As he tucked the bands into the pouch on the back he listened to the two talking.

Maybe it was a good thing? His father had never formed a rapport with any other therapists or doctors. The last one had even refused to continue treating him, claiming his father was aggressive and uncooperative. 

Which, Tim admitted to himself as he wheeled the chair over, wasn’t unsubstantiated. But it was not his dads fault. The trauma of being poisoned, kept in a coma and waking with brain and nerve damage, to news that his wife was dead and his company usurped by the man that killed her. It was more than enough reason for his dad to be struggling. Anyone would. 

“Don’t slack off this time, Jack. I mean it. I don’t want to have to do the same things over and over again.”

“I promise. I’ll follow the doctors orders to the letter.”

Then, with Dana supporting him, his dad stood. 

Tim froze, too shocked to do anything but stare.

When his dad was situated and rolling down the hall Tim scrambled to catch up and hold the door open, shooting a parting smile and wave at Dana. She fluttered the towel she was using to wipe down equipment at him and grinned. 

After arranging the next appointment they went to wait outside for the car service to arrive. Pigeons were swooping dangerously low over the traffic and Tim watched them while organizing his thoughts, picking out what to say. 

“So you like this place?”

His dad grunted. There were sweat stains on the shirt that had been pristine that morning and stress lines on his face. Visible signs of just how hard he was trying. 

Tim hadn’t expected that surge of hope the sight inspired to be so frightening. 

“Its better than the last few places,” he said. “Least I get some respect here.”

Tim looked back at the closed door. Dana had not struck him as particularly respectful. At least not in a manner his dad would recognize. 

“I’ll ask Tanya if she can switch her schedule, since your appointment times are different.” He hoped she wouldn’t mind. 

“No. I want a new one.”

Tim flinched. “What?”

His father finally looked up at him and scowled. “You heard me. I want someone else. I’m sick of that woman’s disrespect.” His eyes narrowed and the sharp intelligence that Tim hadnt seen for years was there, shining like water on a sharp knife. “Don’t think I don’t notice how she talks about me, how she looks at me like I’m some bum.”

“She doesn't—“ Tim protested.

“Quiet. I’m the one that is stuck with her all day.”

“But she’s very good.” He scrambled for something to say, some way to change this. His heart was hammering and the back of his tongue tasted bitter. “The agency says she’s one of the best and—“

“I don’t want her. Call them, tell them to send someone else or I will.” Looking back into the street as the service car rolled to a stop in front of them, his dad rolled forward. “Or I will. Should lodge a complaint against her, anyway.”

It was very cold even in full sun. Tim wrapped his arms around himself, foot rooted to the concrete. He should have been helping the driver situate his dad but all he could do was stand there with mind reeling and stomach rolling. 

But there was nothing he could do to change his fathers mind. And even if he could, did he have the right to? If… if he truly didn’t want Tanya then it was his right to find someone else. It was his decision. And it was a good sign that he was making any decisions. Tim should be happy about it, and happy about how well his father was doing with Dana. 

As he climbed into the car, all he could feel was cold. 

It was stupid decision to go out that night. Tim knew it from the moment he stepped out the door. 

Impulsive action never led to a good outcome. 

He acknowledged that even as he flew back first through a window, a split second of resistance as thin lengths of wood dividing the panes snapped. He felt a sharp bit of pain through his elbow and right ear as he rolled with the momentum, glass biting through his jacket and jeans. 

It was the same window he had sat at the last week and over the crunching of glass he could hear the cats yowling. From the corner of his eye he saw a blur of fun darting down a narrow, dark hallway. But he was too occupied with the ninjas flowing through the window after him to spare more than periphery attention to them.

Half upright, one knee planted on the carpet and broken glass, he knocked aside the swipe of a sai from his throat and tilted out of the way of a nunchuck. The pass of it ruffled his hair. 

“What the fuck?!” Someone shouted from the hallway and Tim rolled out of the path of another attack, using the opportunity to take note of the man standing in the hallway, struggling cat in arms and wearing boxers and a baffled expression. 

It would have been too much to hope the apartments resident was gone. 

“Run,” he barked and rolled further into the apartment and away from the resident. Who, wisely, didn’t question any further and sprinted for the front door. 

The ninjas (and why were there ninjas in Gotham? Tim had never seen ninjas in Gotham before and so far wished that had remained the case) were forcing him lower and lower, breaking his stance and driving him back. He was on both knees now, arching back to further and further to avoid them. 

Sweeping a guai along the floor he collected up shards of glass and hurled them upwards, rolling towards the still swinging apartment door as the ninjas shield their faces. 

He ran into the corridor, linoleum squealing under his boots as he raced towards the emergency stairwell door. 

Coming here had been stupid, Tim reiterated to himself as a shuriken flew by his head as he slammed through the door. Alarms blared and Tim didn’t pause, hurling himself upwards. He should have stayed home and conducted more research, not gone off half cocked and hazy with exhaustion to surveil a location he already knew was housing a dangerous unknown element. 

Blood pooled down the side of his neck. The whole right shoulder of his jacket was sodden and heavy with it, enough to impair movement ever so slightly. And with ninjas after him, the slight disadvantage could well prove fatal. 

He dropped beneath another swipe of the sai, knee slamming into the edge of a step. Guai lashing over one shoulder, he kicked out low with one foot and felt it impact. Didn’t check to see how much damage he managed to cause and lunged faster up the stairs. At the landing in front of him the door opened, an old woman starting through before taking note of Tim and his tag-alongs and slamming the door shut again. 

Tim vaulted the landing and headed ever upwards. 

He had spent the afternoon arranging a new care provider. It had went smoothly, easily. Only a few easily answered questions and half any hour later Tanya was officially reassigned elsewhere and a stranger set to take her place the next day. 

It was stupid for Tim be affected at all by the change. It had nothing to do with him and he only saw Tanya in passing, ten minutes at most every few days. There was no reason to care about never seeing her again. 

There were twelve sticky notes in the bottom of his nightstand that had once been attached to cabinet doors and Tupperware. Why did he even save them? He didn’t know. 

The roof access door came into view and Tim barreled towards, hoping it was more modern than it looked, hoping it was locked form the outside only. And for once luck was on his side. 

Tar paper clung to the bottom of his boots as he careened over the rooftop and darted behind an AC unit. The muffled whooping of the complexes alarm was still audible and Tim could just barely hear the sound of approaching sirens and the drawn out honk of a fire engines horn. 

Redirecting a nunchuck and feeling it crunch into the aluminum siding of the unit, Tim gritted his teeth and swept both guai inward. If it had connected fully it would have broken ribs but instead the ninja (and where they male? Female? No matter how intently he looked he couldn’t even precisely determine height or weight) twisted enough to escape with only a glancing blow. 

If Tim can hold out for ten minutes, twelve, the police and the firemen will enter the building and the ninjas will be forced to retreat or commit to being seen by more than a sleep addled citizen. 

They know it as well, if the the renewed force of their attacks is any indication. 

Tim blocks, redirects, responds with force whenever he can. A sai skewers through his jacket and the shirt beneath but doesn’t cut him. The feel of it pressed against his skin is shockingly cold before he tears free. 

It occurs to him, suddenly, that there are only two on the rooftop with him. And he understand in an instant where the other is and what they must be doing. 

Two to keep him occupied and away; one to destroy the evidence and clear out the base. 

And all of his effort will be for nothing. 

Anger is not an emotion that came easily to Tim. Sometimes, when he was younger, he wondered if he were even capable of it. If there was something wrong with him and whether there were any other emotions he couldn't experience and what that said about him. 

The last two years had taught him all about anger, and how it felt. What it could do. How brightly it could burn and what it could fuel. He had also learned just how destructive it could be if unchecked. 

Generally he kept any flicker of it suppressed. He simply didn’t have the capacity to do so now. 

“Who are you?!” He shouted, lunging forward with a reckless jab of the guai. “Who hired you?!”

No answer, of course.

The cars and cacophony from the street rose higher. The emergency personnel had arrived and time was up.

The two fell back, weapons vanishing in a flicker, and when Tim raced to close the distance, to stop them somehow, they tipped back out the edge of the building and vanished. 

Tim braced his hand on the edge of the low wall and closed his eyes. When he opened them the shouting from below had increased and he could see the first faint wisps of smoke curling from the brick building across from him. There was no flicker of fire, no great plumes yet, but Tim knew that whatever matter was already destroyed. 

His best lead was gone. 

Seated on the bathroom counter, Tim swiped at his side with an alchol soaked towel and hissed at the sting.

The sai had not pierced his skin and he was even more grateful for it now than he had been in the moment, due to the rawness and welted swelling of the area it had touched. Poison, of some kind. Definitely fast acting and potent if mere contact was enough to evoke such a reaction. 

His ear had still been oozing when he bandaged it but the cut on his elbow, even with a shard of window buried in it, was relatively minor. It took little more than a Flash bandaid. 

He hadn’t noticed the welt until later. Staring at it with a scowl, he wished desperately for a way to test whatever residue remained. Even Gotham Academy’s science wing would have been enough. But he didn’t have the time, equipment or knowledge to do so with so small and likely degraded sample. So he was forced to wipe it away, feeling as though he were destroying yet more evidence. 

It was his fault that he now had nothing to go on. His fault that they were now aware of his interest, of his existence. He had tipped his own hand out of childish impulsivity and he deserved whatever he got in return. 

The towel his the shower wall with a wet thwack and slid to the floor with an even more unpleasant plop. Putting his face in his hands, Tim curled his legs up onto the counter and leaned heavily against the mirror, faucet digging into his hip. 

Through his fingers he could make out his phone on top of the overflowing basket of dirty laundry. 

He still had the photos. He’d barely had the opportunity to back them up, much less look them over. It had been what he was planning to do that night. 

He still had that. 

It didn’t feel like enough. 

Tired, aching, side burning, he closed his eyes again and forced himself to breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for Jack being a bastard, ninja violence, and Tim losing one of the few people who were anything close to a support system.
> 
> Ugh. I do not like this chapter. Every five or so chapters I hit one that I just hate and this one came along right on schedule. Don't like the pacing or the dialogue or anything. 
> 
> At least there were cats. 
> 
> Also, since Tim likely will never realize and thus it will probably not be addressed, Jack is getting rid of Tanya because he doesn't want her to call bullshit on him in front of Dana. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this trainwreck! Comment if inclined and have a good week :)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs at bottom of chapter

The projectors had been fifteen dollars, in pieces in a box at the back of a thrift store. It had taken Tim the better part of a day to get all four of them functional, and one of them still sputtered and flickered out intermittently. But with them grouped in the middle of his mostly emptied room, he was able to paint the wall with the light saturated images of the base that had been burned out. 

It was uncomfortable and off-putting, but immersive. And if Tim couldn’t return to the burnt husk of the base, he would create it here. 

The walls were already marked up with post-it notes and scribbled notations in pencil. Spread over the floor was a map of Gotham, on a smaller and less intricate scale. A physical copy of the map being projected on the wall.

The photos of the various… suspects? Targets? He had identified all of them and even managed to locate most. Some of them were dead by seemingly natural means, such as two convenient heart attacks and an allergic reaction whilst on a golf course. 

Tim frowned at the slightly smudged out images on his wall. There was no way to know whether it was anything else, now. 

Seated on the floor with his laptop, phone and a stack of notebooks full of coded notes, Tim waited for it all to fall into place and make sense. Unsurprisingly, it did not. 

The most recent suspect of the ninjas and, presumably, Shiva, was a computer scientist at GU. Micheal Tully, fifty-one and married who had moved to Gotham only months before Tim stole most of the wealth from the Gotham elite. And he had come into some significant wealth of his own a few months later. 

The man had yet to be eliminated as a suspect. Or eliminated in general. Which meant that he was likely till under surveillance. 

With any luck, the ninjas did not realize Tim had already been in their base and he would be able to use what little information he had. 

Leaning back onto his hands, Tim sighed, eyes drooping. 

He had made little progress on anything for the past week. Between rearranging his schedule around his dads new appointment times, trying to find a replacement for Tanya, and keeping watch for any sign that the ninjas had followed him or otherwise found out who he was, he had not had the opportunity to pursue the investigation. 

When he was a child he had nothing but time. Nothing but time and opportunity and privacy. At the time he would have given it all up just to have his parents there, no matter how restrictive it might have been. 

So he wasn’t used to not having the time to work. Or the energy. He was just… so tired now. 

His attention was snagged by another mark on the map that he neglected to notice before. It must have been written in pencil, because it was faint and nearly invisible when projected. For a moment his mind ground useless, gears eroded and useless, before it clicked and he scrambled over. 

Ducking beneath the beam of the projector, he squinted at the circle on a street corner and sucked in a sharp breath. 

It was in the neighborhood where he had contacted the League for the second time. He remembered it. A small, family run hardware store where he had ducked in to in order to buy an extension cord. They had a jar of mints by the register and the cashier had offered him one, but his hands had been shaking almost too much to pass over the cash and his stomach too knotted to handle the thought of putting anything into it. He’d bought what he needed and hurried out without a word.

He’d known it was stupid at the time. Known he should have been better prepared, should have had all his equipment already on him. But desperation made his sloppy. 

His entire body iced over as he realized he couldn’t remember whether or not he had left it behind. 

There was a tiny, washed out green dot inside the circle and he scrambled through his notebooks and loose pieces of scrap paper until he found what he needed. 

Green denoted an established connection. 

He scrambled through the notes, and when that wasn’t quick enough he raced to the wall, finger tracing just beneath the photos. 

There. On the golf course causality and heart attack number two. Green dots on the bottom left corner. 

And on Michael Tully’s.

They must have all been there at the hardware store. Before or after Tim, possibly even at the same time. He wracked his brain, trying to remember if there had been cameras in the store. He didn’t think so, but what if he was wrong? Were they identified via footage or receipts? If it was the latter, then Tim was safe. He’d used cash. But if it was the former…

He tore through his notes and pulled up the pictures from the base in order to have a clear view. It took over an hour, and a lot of google translating, but eventually he found the list of connections. When he did he pressed a hand over his face and exhaled, shaky and painfully relieved. 

It was receipts. Four other people had bought the same item with cash, like Tim, and were yet to be identified. 

He had left so much behind. How could he have left so much evidence behind? He knew better, he usually did better. It was as shameful as a was terrifying and he cringed into his hands. 

He needed to end this. He needed to find out who wanted him badly enough to hire Shiva and he needed to stop them. There was no way to know what they wanted with him but it certainly not anything good. And his dad would suffer the fallout as much as Tim himself, of that he was sure. 

It was time to get more proactive. 

Michael Tully lived in a three story brownstone twenty minutes from GU’s main campus. Every day at 6:30 he would bicycle to work and an hour later his wife would leave for her own job at a local gallery. On the weekends they would drive forty minutes away to the Albury Country Club and play racquet ball or croquet, alternating between the two. 

Their schedule was regimented and unchanging and it made them extremely easy to monitor. 

Tim spent almost two weeks following Tully throughout his day. He’d sat through several uninspiring and achingly dry lectures in a dim hall, watched him putter around the postage stamp sized garden at the back of the brownstone and spent cold nights keeping watch for any hint of trouble. 

He had caught a brief glimpse of it several times. Flickering hints of dark clothing on the edge of rooftops or down streets. When he had broken into the brownstone to rifle through file cabinets and Tully’s desktop he had found several cameras the size of pin heads tucked away behind vent covers and lampshades. 

It had been difficult to resist the urge to steal one; he had never seen anything quite like them and he longed to take them apart and repurpose them. 

As to Tully’s sudden windfall, Tim had discovered that while it was by no means as much as Tim had stolen, it was still a hefty amount. Several accounts spread across the world held approximately eight millions dollars and that was only from what Tim had found. 

It had required slightly more digging to unearth the source of it and when it had Tim had been impressed. The man might not make much effort to teach his students anything beyond the basics of his craft, but that did not mean he wasn’t skilled. 

Over the course of four years Tully had skimmed from a variety of virtual casinos, legal and otherwise. The income from his efforts had been small but steady and built up into a fortune just before Tully pulled out, usually only a few months before his theft was revealed. Tim was almost tempted to use the scheme himself. 

So far Tully had evaded capture or discovery. There were quite a few of enraged people looking for him, but Tim thought it was likely he would get away with it. 

Whether or not Shiva and her apparent cohorts knew about it was impossible to determine. Tim was inclined to think no, if only because they were still investigating the man.

It was Sunday evening and the Tullys had returned from a cocktail party at the gallery, the compact electric commuter car park sloppily in front of their house. 

They were both clearly tipsy and happy with it, giggling and leaning together, clothing rumpled. They seemed happy and at ease. Tim supposed that was easy to do when they were unaware of being watched by ninjas. 

He had spent most of his evenings sitting on the same on the porch of a larger brownstone down the street, where he could see the Tullys residence and most of the surrounding front yards. It was as safe, comfortable spot, with a porch swing he took full advantage of. The owner was an elderly woman who went to bed at five every evening and was therefore unaware of the interloper on her front stoop. She was also, by all accounts, a horrible person who none of her neighbors went out of their way to speak to, if the neighborhood watch Facebook group (which was more of a chatty gossip board than anything) was to be believed. 

No one had asked about his presence yet and in the event that they did he would claim he was a grandchild. As it was, he sat with with his phone and ear buds in, trying to appear like every other disinterested youth. 

It was shaping up to be another uneventful night. Tim took a capri-sun from his pocket and sighed. It was body warm. He squished it gently between his palms as he watched the lights in the Tullys house turn on one by one. 

There was no sign of any other watchers, yet, but Tim didn’t doubt they were there. 

Stabbing the straw into his pouch, he set the swing swaying again and settled in to wait. 

It was midnight and Tim was nearly asleep where he sat. He had left the swing for the less visible safety of the porch railing, sitting pressed against the slats with his legs going numb. With the porch light disabled via a strip of duct tape over the motion sensor no one passing by would see him but it still felt exposed. He would have preferred the familiarity of the rooftops, but that seemed to be the path most taken by the ninjas and so Tim was forced to resort to the path most traveled. 

A frog was crocking from a neighbors water feature and Tim cocked his head to listen. The closest he generally came to authentic sounds of natures was the yowling of alley strays of the demented cooing of pigeons. 

It was due to listening so intently that he even heard the faint, muffled shattering coming from the one ear bud he had left in. 

His eyes snapped to the Tullys just as on of the upstairs windows went abruptly dark, a bright, brief flare of light preceding it. A shattered bulb. 

Swinging over the railing he leapt over narrow boxes of manicured shrubbery and ran up the sidewalk. Pulling a medical mask over his face and dragging his hood over his head, he dragged his guai out of the slits cut into the side of his hoodie. 

The Tullys front porch had a recently built pergola style covering, bizarrely at odds with the style of the house itself and subject of many bitter conversation on the neighborhood watch board. It was also very convenient for a rapid ascent. 

Tim leapt, barely managing to hook the grip of one guai over the slippery synthetic beam and heaving himself up, curling up between the gaps. The second story window in front of him was an original stained glass, antique, but he didn’t hesitate to launch right through it. 

The only sound that followed it was the tinkle of glass shards on the hardwood floor; the alarm system was already deactivated. 

The landing he crouched on had a view down the narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms and second floor offices. The door to the master suite at the very end was ajar, a sliver of darkness. Light from a wall sconce at the bottom of the staircase cast long, distorted shadows of the railing rungs on the wallpaper. 

Two featureless black figures melted from the open door, closing it behind them and cutting of a muffled scream. 

One held the nunchucks he was already acquainted with. The other slender loops of chain, a delicate crescent blade at either end. 

“Why do stand in our way again?” Nunchucks said in a voice as featureless and unidentifiable as the loose black clothing they wore. 

“I think I'll jsut keep you in suspense there.” Tim set his feet, knees bent and body lowered. The chain would be a ranged attack and it was a weapon he had never gone up against. The greater threat at the moment. 

Gotham criminals were a breed prone to monologue and soliloquy. Tim had overheard everything from cringe inducing rants to artful examples of wordplay that would have impressed Shakespeare himself. 

The fact that the ninjas surged forward with no further attempts at speaking was the best indicator yet that they were not locals. 

Tim dipped beneath the swing of a nunchuck and heard it crack through the plaster of the wall, felt the puff and prickle of debris peppering his shoulders before he slid beneath the far more intimidating arch of the chains. The blade at the end sparkled in the low light like ice. 

It was a location for combat. Too tight, with steep stairs to one side and an even tighter hallway to the other. But of the three, Tims guai were the most suited to the field and he made full use of it. 

Keeping low, thighs burning and the arch of his feet straining in boots a few ounces too heavy to be suited to his movements, he drove them back with strikes at knees and ankles and groin. 

He felt the whip of the chain pass over his shoulder, a cold shine in his periphery. It was fast, and fluid, but Tim was beginning to understand the physics of it. Which was all that was needed to combat it. One the next swing of it, he waits until the last second before dropping, and the sound of the tangling with the nunchuck in the space his had had previously occupied was viciously satisfying. 

Tim didn’t waste time enjoying the success. While the two silently began disentangling, he ran down the hall and through the bedroom door. 

The sai skimming over his blocking guai was expected. Tim kicked the door shut and spun around the ninja. The room was dark and the thick carpet dragged at his feet. He could make out two figures huddled together on the bed, heard muffled crying. The Tullys were alive. 

A sick twist in his stomach loosened at the realization. 

The door began to open again and Tim kicked it shut. Three against one in the in a room with two potential casualties were not good odds and Tim was unwilling to risk it. Even if keeping the door closed limited his ability to move at all. 

The sai appeared low, aim upward towards his belly and Tim knew he wouldn’t be able to doge it without taking pressure off the door. But it didn’t matter, as long as it didn’t connect perfectly. He angled sideways, the sai press hard along his side. He felt the tip pressed hard against him before it veered away, his self made armored vest just barely stronger. 

He huffed out a laugh. He hadn’t been sure it would work. A weighted diving vest with the weights replaced with overlapping strips of fiberglass coated sheet metal. It was heavy and unwieldy and added a strange bulk to his shape, but it was now quite literally worth the weight. 

He dropped his arm down nd trapped the said against his side, guai coming up to snap against the wrist of the hand holding the blade. There was a wet crunch and the grip loosened just enough for Tim to wrench the weapon loose. 

Shoulders still pressed to the door, he dropped down and stabbed the sai through a thin boot, the foot it contained and deep into the floor beneath. 

The ninja grunted quietly and Tim lunged to the side, slinging himself up the bookcase beside the door and fitting himself into the tight corner above. He shoved hard and it toppled, landing in front of the door with a crashed and settling less than an inch from the pinned foot of the ninja. 

Tim rolled further into the room, guai raised to block the attack he was certain was coming. But the ninja was still int eh same place, sai ignored as they pulled a needle from the depths of their inch dark clothing and jabbed it into their thigh, alarmingly close to their groin. 

Tim recalled the still visible welt on his side and winced. It seemed the ninja was not immune to their own poison, whatever it was. 

No time to think about it. 

Tim ran to the bed, swimming hurriedly through a bunched velvet bedspread to the two people huddled into the headboard. He was close enough to see they were tied with hands behind their backs and gagged.

There was a heavy, solid thud against the door, followed immediately by another and the crack of breaking wood. No time. 

Tim pulled the knife from his boot and sliced through the too tight ropes pinning the Tullys arms together, flinching when Mrs Tully yelped when it scratched her wrist. 

“I’m so sorry, ma’am, just a moment.”

The door cracked further, solid pine little more than an inconvenience. Tim shoved the two off the bed, ignoring their reaching hands, their confusion as he shoved them towards the window. With no time to waste unlocking and opening it, Tim smashed it, clearly the sil with a sweep of one guai and shoving the Tully towards it. They bulked. 

“Its the fastest way,” he said hurriedly, still shoving and pulling and pushing, and the when a smear of movement appeared behind them he spun around to block the guai. The blow was hard and his feet not planted, so he slid a few inches, his back slamming into Micheal Tullys and rocking him towards the window. “Its the only way, jump! Hurry!”

From the corner of his eye he saw Mrs Tullys hand grab her husbands wrinkled sleeve and drag him with her as she toppled out the window. 

Now all he had to do was buy them some time. 

The top of the door gave way in a shower of splinters and Tim planted himself in front of the window, braced and ready and determined. 

It was still three against one, but there was less chance of casualties now. 

His mind settled in the way it so rarely did. Only staying in place and staying upright mattered. Every stab of the blood slicked sai, every cracking swing of the nunchuck or the looping crescent of the chain seemed suddenly clear. It did not make avoiding or blocking them any easier, but the fear lessened. 

Tim counted the seconds, sweat building up beneath his vest and under his mask. His hands ached and his palms felt raw, not used to so much resistance against his strikes. And no matter how much he resisted, he was pushed back millimeter by millimeter until the small of his back hit the sill. 

The chain whipped forward and wrapped tight around his one guai and elbow, blade hooking into his sleeve like a dogs tooth. He couldn’t unwind it before having it used to reel him in.

One hundred-fifteen seconds; hopefully he had given them enough time. 

Following Mrs Tullys example, he toppled backwards over the sill and pulled the chain with him. 

A few feet above the tiny patio below, the chain pulled tight, wrenching out a scream. His ears roared and burned as the blood rushed out of his head, vision flickering to white for a single agonizing second. The scrape of the small blade dragging down his forearm was negligible against the twisting pressure of the chain against bones still delicate from healing. 

It felt like Dorrance was breaking his arm all over again. 

Planting a foot against the side of the house, he pushed off at an angle, spinning against the loop of the chain until it unspooled and he dropped heavily to the boards below. 

No time, no time, no time, his brain chanted through the pain. The guai still clenched in his hand shook. Until the pain eased or he stopped being weak and overcame it, his arm would be useless. 

“Incoming!” 

It what seemed a single, distended second, something metallic flashed by over his head into the window, an arm dragged him off the patio into the grass and an explosion rattled the whole block. 

Tim coughed, brick dust and the scent of scorched synthetic carpet rolling out over the lawn. Even through the mask it was overwhelming. 

Then the arm around his middle lifted him right off the grass and over a shoulder. 

He brought his knee sharply in and winced when it cracked against kevlar. Squirming, he let the guai in his steady hand slip through his hand until it extended far enough to slam the bottom of the grip in the back of a jean clad knee. 

“Fuck! Ow!” The arm curled around him and pinning him against the uncomfortably bulky shoulder squeezed. “Do that shit one more time and I’ll take em away. Fucking demonic little shit.”

The last was mumbled and Tim frowned at it with a vague prickle of offense. He didn’t think he had done anything particularly worthy of being called demonic. He twisted enough to catch a glimpse of slick, blood red and froze.

“Red Hood?” The guai, already cocked back and angled for an even harder blow, drooped. He shoved one guai hurried into its sling beneath his shirt. “What are you doing here?”

“Who the—“ Tim was swung off and around and dropped, one of Red Hoods hands tangled in his hood. They stared at one another. “You are not the brat I was expecting, not gonna lie. Who the hell are you?”

No reason to waste another alias. Tim waved and hoped it was dark enough to mask his lack of brown contacts. “Marco. Nice to see you again?”

A ninja dropped out of the blown out wall of the brownstone and Tim found himself back on Red Hoods shoulder. 

“Hold on to that thought.”

Tim gripped the back of the mans jacket, tucking one foot into bulky belt. He couldn’t decide whether to try and break free or hold as still as possible as Red Hood danced back, movements sharp and harsh and powerful as he fought. 

Not that Tim could see any of it. His field of vision was mostly composed of brown leather and half dead grass. 

“God damned cockroaches,” Red Hood snarled. Tim jumped when a gun fired, three shots in quick succession. The recoil travel through Hoods body and into his, an alien sensation that had him squirming. “You shitty Leaguer bastards, grow some damn balls!”

Tims hand clenched. Leaguer? A cold wash of unease spread through his belly. 

Hood fired again and Tim caught the shine of the chain, slightly damped with a layer of soot, from the corner of his eye. But he was too occupied with the terrible suspicion blooming like a fungal spore in the back of his mind. 

Shiva and ninjas. Common denominating between them? Assassination. Leaguers, as in member of a league. There was only one League that sprung to mind and certainly had nothing to do with sports.

If possibly, things were looking worse than Tim had originally thought. 

“Tuck and roll, kid,” Hood growled and it was all the warning Tim received before being ruled unceremoniously over the stone wall separating the Tullys from their neighbors. 

He grunted, curling around his arm as he rolled through an ornate rock garden, toppling delicately balanced marble structures like dominoes. 

The lights were already on is the house, movement and raised voices making their way through the closed curtains. Apparently this was the same route the Tullys had taken. By the sound of it, they were already on the phone to the police. 

At least that part of the plan had gone well. 

Red Hood vaulted over the wall and before his feet even touched down another explosion had Tims ears ringing and debris flying. Dirt and bits of lawn and patio, this time, rather than brick.

“Hah!” Turning, the Red Hood raised the hand not currently holding an oversized handgun and flipped an obscene gesture towards the plume of smoke and dust. “Fuck you!”

A shuriken whizzed over the wall and was batted aside with the barrel of the gun, sinking into the brick of the house instead. “Come out and face me, you limp dick fuckers!”

Surprisingly, one of the them did. The nunchuck ninja spilled over the wall and slammed into Red Hood, bowling him over. Tim yelped and jerked out of the way. 

The yard was too small for a brawl, but that did not appear to matter to Red Hood. Tim continued to scramble out of the way as the two rolled from one wall to the other, fists somehow managing to strike harder than the nunchuck. With a twist and a hard elbow to the face of the ninja, Hood got the upper hand and pressed the barrel of the gun against the swathed throat. 

Tim lunged forward, guai hooking around Red Hoods elbow and pulling as had as he could. The bullet bit into the earth instead of the throat it had been intended for. 

The Red Hoods namesake swung around to glare at Tim. “Back off, kid.”

“You can’t just kill people!” Tim sputtered. A tiny, selfish corner of his mind was wondering if there were corpses beyond the wall and if this person on the ground, literal inches from death, was the last lead he had left.

The ninja twisted loose and kicked, knocking Red Hood back before leaping over the wall. 

“Fuck! Get back here!” Pushing out of the pile of rocks he had landed in, Red Hood followed. 

Tim glanced back at the Tullys house. A smoldering orange glow was growing at the edges of the blown out wall. Not long until it caught fire completely. Tim wondered whether it was due to the explosion, or whether the ninja were once again burning out their tracks. 

Behind him, where Red Hood had gone, a crash sounded and Tim followed it. 

The proceeding yards were scarred with evidence of the twos passage. Broken bird feeder and its scattered seeds, a fountain knocked off center and spraying water into the sky. 

There was a faint scuffing sound behind him and ran faster, leaping another wall. He couldn’t hear any pursuit but the chill on the back of his neck, honed through years of walking Gotham at night and living amongst murderers, told him that it was there. 

At least his leads were not so dead as he feared. 

He threw himself over the last wall and rolled down the steep incline and through a hedge into the street beyond. 

His wrist scraped over the asphalt of the road but the car bearing down on him was far more worthy of his attention. Brake shrieked and the car jerked just far enough that with Tims continued momentum it did nothing more than than spray him with roadway debris. 

The car was angled towards the hedge and Tim saw two shadows pour over it in the full light of the headlights. On the lawn across the street Red Hood was grappling with the ninja, the sound of fists on flesh and metal against kevlar louder than the purr of the cars still running engine. 

The drivers door opened with the bare start of a hysterical word in a mans deep voice that Tim didn’t bother to listen to before kicking the door closed. 

“Get out of here, sir!” He shouted and planted his good hand on the asphalt, shoving up and away as a ninja rolled over the cars hood, feet slamming into the road where Tim had been. 

Thankfully, the driver listened and the car peeled away with a squeal of tires and the scent of burnt rubber.

He lunged away from the sweep of the chain, down the middle of the road. Somewhat to his surprise, the second ninja did not break away to aid the one once again trapped beneath Red Hood, but pursued Tim further up the street. 

His arm aching, ears still ringing and down to one guai, Tim knew he was at a disadvantage. So did the ninjas, who pressed harder and closer, reckless and willing to suffer glancing blows that they had previously avoided. 

Forced down the street and forced to put all his effort to blocking, Tim realized he wouldn’t be able to break away. And this time the inevitable arrival of police was not dissuading them. 

And engine roared.

“Kid! Arms up!”

Instinctively, Tim obeyed. 

The ninja leapt to either side as Red Hood bore down on a black motorcycle and Tim yelped as a solid arm hooked him around the middle as it sped by. 

He was deposited unceremoniously in front of Hood, who increased their speed so abruptly Tim slammed back against his chest. He scrambled for a hand hold, breathless from the hooking and the sudden speed, wind snatching at his mask and burning his eyes. 

They took a turn so sharp the bikes side nearly skimmed the road. Red Hoods thigh holster did, and Tim boggled at the spurt of sparks off the metal buckle. 

“Hold on tight!” Red Hood shouted into his ear.

“To what?!” Tim shrieked back. 

A snort of laughter. “Whatever you can reach, kid.”

Tim realized there was an arm wrapped around him and some of the nervous vertigo eased as he grabbed at it. 

They raced passed a trio of patrol cars and turned sharply into a busy street, splitting between lanes and earning a chorus of blasting horns. 

“Why were you there?” He yelled over the rushing wind. Red Hood jostled him in place, though his grip stayed reassuringly tight. 

“How the hell would that be your business?” When Tim remained silent and expectant, he scoffed. “Fuckers have been getting in my way. Decided to clear them out. Why were you?”

Time for delfection. “Where are we going?”

“The hospital, obviously. Don’t think I didn’t see you dangling like the worlds lamest ornament.”

“What?” Tim yelped. His heart, so nicely settled into a resting rate, thundered again. “No!”

“Yes!” Hood snapped. 

“You can’t.” Tim scrambled for an argument. The only one that might sway the man was the truth, and he hurried to provide it. “They will know to look for me there. They’ll know what injuries to look for. And its not broken, I swear! Please, don’t take me to a hospital.”

They drove in silence for too long, Tim clinging to the arm trapping him in place as he wondered how fatal throwing himself off a motorcycle would be. 

“Fine,” Hood spit. “Fine. But we’re doing things my way.”

Tim leaned against the wall with his sore arm tucked into the pouch of his hoodie and watched as Red Hood picked the lock with only a few twists. It was almost totally silent; the proper key would likely have made more noise. Tim was mostly self taught in the art of lock picking but considered himself pretty skilled. 

Red Hood had elevated it from skill to art. 

Shoving the thick glass door open and holding it, Hood glared down at him. “C’mon. In.”

Tim obeyed easily enough, glancing at the cheerful primary colors of the sign on the glass as he slipped under Hoods arm. “Why a family dentist?”

“Lighter security,” was the grunted reply as Red Hood stomped heavily to the alarm system on the wall and tore it open. The plastic casing crunched in his hand as he ripped off. 

“Well, that’s going to change, after breaking things.” Tim poked the cracked casing on the floor. 

“Then I’m doing them a favor, aren’t I? A free wake up call.”

Alarm dismantled, the man stalked through the waiting room. Even with only the light from the street shining through the window, he looked strange and hulking as he skirted a toddler sized plastic table stacked with oversized legos. Tim followed a few paces behind.

Not a location with which the man was familiar, Tim noted as Hood opened and closed various doors, mumbling under his breath. But at the second to last door he apparently found what he had been looking for.

“Finally.” He reached back and snagged Tims sleeve, hauling him forward without a glance. “In.”

Too curious to care overly much about the continued manhandling, Tim walked through the door. “Oh.”

The room was small and the chair in the middle of it took up most of the space. The long arm of the X-ray took up the rest. A rubbery grey apron festooned with cartoon stickers hung from the wall.

“This is a really smart idea,” he said, walking in to prod the machine. And it was. He should have thought of something like it before. It was not as though he had access to proper equipment most of the time. And he could definitely leave less of a trace than Hood cared to. “But I already told you my arm isn’t broken. And I’ll take care of it later.”

“Kid, you are bullshitting so hard I feel like I’m on a fucking cattle drive.” The clatter of an abused keyboard underscored his words. “And my lifelong ambition is not to be some punk cowboy.”

“Their hats are cooler than yours,” Tim pointed out. “I mean, they might be called a ten gallon but yours is the one that looks like a bucket.”

“Its sleek modern minimalism, fuck you,” Hood scoffed. It was hard to tell through the distortion of the helmet, but Tim thought there was a hint of amusement there. 

It was sort of nice. The man might have thrown grenades through windows and nearly killed multiple people, but it was nice to be appreciated. Tims brand of humor had only ever appealed to Steph before. 

Hood entered the room and manhandled Tim behind the chair, spreading the apron over the headrest. The arm of the X-ray groaned as he forced it into position. But when he grabbed Tims arm and settled it in place on the apron, his touch was light. 

“Keep it there. Don’t move it.”

“I know how this works,” Tim said reassuringly. The tilt of the red helmet seemed to indicate the man was looking at him, so Tim grinned. “I’ll hold still, promise.”

“You better. If we don’t get any good shots I will dump you are the ER.”

Tim scowled but nodded. As a compromise, this was already far better than Tim would ever have expected.

Hood returned a few more times to rotate his arm or adjust the X-ray, but within a few minutes they were standing at the station out in the hall, clicking through the slide of the radiographs.

A tiny kernel of concern eased when Tim saw no sign of a re-break. He had known it there wouldn’t be but clear confirmation was unexpectedly soothing. 

“The hell happened to you?” Hood mutter. The plasma screen flickered under the pressure of his finger as he tapped it. 

“I broke it a few months ago,” Tim said. “But its not broken now. I was right.”

Hood ignored that, clicking back through the images. “I’ve broken enough bones to know that you didn’t break shit. Someone else did that to you.”

“By ‘I’ve broken enough bones’ do you mean yours or…?”

“The hell do you think?” Red Hood snapped. “Who did that to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Tucking his arm back into his pocket (it might not be broken but it was painful enough to merit a makeshift sling) he pulled out the last carpi-sun with his other hand and held out. “Want it?”

Red Hood growled. “Kid.”

“It really doesn’t matter. They’re dead now, anyway.” Or as good as. Not wanting to get creative with inserting the straw one handed, he tore the corner off with his teeth.

“You lying to me?” Hood asked. If he hadn’t just gone out of his way to make sure Tim wasn’t injured, the tone would have come across as threatening. 

“You’re the one who keeps saying you can smell bullshit.” He sucked on the torn corner and maintained eye contact as well he could when Hood still wore his helmet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Hood groaned. “Fine. I believe you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Hood stuck a pointed finger in his face. “Sass. Off.”

Tim shrugged. “Its congenital. I can’t help it.”

Hood groaned again and slid down the wall to sit on the floor. “Brat.”

A thud resounded down the hall as he leaned his head against wall, shoulders drooping. 

Tim hummed and took his place at the computer. A few seconds and the radiographs were deleted and the history wiped clean. Pulling the hem of his sleeve over his hand he buffed the keyboard; no reason to take any chances. 

Then he sat across from Hood, his feet a few inches away from the mans scarred boots. 

“Thanks for the help,” he said. 

“Kid…” 

With a sigh, Hood unlatched his helmet, a process Tim couldn’t help watching with interest. 

The jagged edged domino was the same as was the the hank of white-grey hair. Without an excess of harbor water, the rest of his hair was lighter than Tim had thought, dark brown rather than black. There was a sheen of sweat over his face. 

“Look. I don’t know what you thought you were doing, but those guys? Bad fucking news and way above your pay-grade. Falcone and Iverson have nothing on these bastards.”

Tim dragged his hood over his head and looked away. The too warm faux juice was suddenly more nausea inducing than thirst quenching. “I would have gotten away.”

“You might have. But you also might have been on a slab in some drawer by now.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable supposition. Tim had not appeared terribly competent when dangling out a window, he was willing to admit. But there was no other option. 

And he couldn’t tell Hood that so he remained silent. 

Hood scrubbed a hand over his face and took a bracing breath. “Okay. Listen. Getting those people out? Not gonna lie, you did good there. You did the right thing. But you shouldn’t’a been there to begin with. And we both know those yuppies didn’t have shit all in the way of cash, so why were you there at all?”

“I can’t tell you,” Tim said quietly. His nails scratched over the laces of his shoes, dirtier now than they had been at the beginning of the night. There were blood on the bottom of one. Probably from impaling the sai wielders foot. 

It was sort of funny, now that he thought about it. He had done the same thing to Shiva when they first met. Perhaps he was getting sloppy and creating a pattern. She’d be disappointed if she knew.

“I can’t tell you,” he repeated and realized that there was nothing more that he wanted in that moment than to do so. 

If his hypothesis was correct, the League of Assassins was looking for him. 

He should have known. They did say he wouldn’t be a stranger for long. 

“Aw, shit. C’mon. I suck at the whole… crying, comfort thing. Is someone making you do all this dumbass stuff? I can kill em for you.”

“I’m not crying,” Tim muttered. And it was the truth, he wasn’t. On the rare occasion he did cry it was usually on command. He was just… a little discombobulated. And tired. Coffee would take care of both, as soon as he got his hands on some. 

He really, really wanted some.

Red Hoods boot tapped against the bottom of his foot.

“Is someone making you do things, though? No joke, I’ll help you.”

Tim snorted. “No thanks. I’m not going to sic a deranged gunman who wears a bucket on anybody. And no one is making me do anything.”

The only thing forcing him to do anything was the consequences of his own ineptitude. 

“Shit,” Hood mumbled again. 

Hiding in the depths of his hoodie, Tim didn’t see the man move and startled to feel a weight press against his shoulder. Sitting beside him, Hood was staring at the wall, face tight. 

“They don’t know who you are, right?”

Not yet, Tim thought glumly, and nodded. 

“Alright. Alright. Heres what you're gonna do; you’ll go home and you’ll keep your head down and if you even think you see any those bitches,” he lifted one hip and rummaged in a pocket, eventually hand over a torn strip of note paper with a phone number written in runny blue ink, “you call me and stay alive until I get there. Capiche?”

Tim took it, fingers light on the paper. Something deep in his chest was unknotting. It felt like when Steph first hugged him, arms solid and warm around his shoulders, like nothing he’d ever felt before. 

He wouldn’t call. He didn’t know anything about the Red Hood beyond his capacity for violence and the strange kind of care he unwillingly extended to Tim, twice. Calling would be too great a risk. 

But…

He stared at the ink and it looked even more runny than before, suddenly. 

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for ninja violence, a lot of swearing, and general Timothy Drake angst.
> 
> Here I am, sliding under the wire at the last possible second. I swear its still Sunday where I am! And just a heads up, I might not be able to post next week. There's going to be a lot of housemate re-shuffling this month and I have some things I need to catch up on. If I'm not able to update, I'll try to give a heads-up on twitter. 
> 
> Also, does Jason swear too much? I feel like Jason swears too much....
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Comment if you are so inclined and have a good week!


	25. Chapter 25: Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like the last interlude, this is set several months before the 'current' events of the story. I know, its confusing, but it keeps shaking out this way...

Hobbies, Damian was discovering, were complicated. 

There were far more rules to abide by and all were unspoken. The internet was proving itself a less than reliable resource, which was at least fulfilling one of his expectations. His grandfathers many libraries were vastly superior. And nude females did not unexpectedly appear from a single misplaced click of a button. 

Though Graysons reaction to such an occurrence had been amusing. 

However. Hobbies. 

Damian stood straight backed and scowling before the whiteboard sitting lopsided on the training room wall, directly above the mahogany stand that supported his swords. The board was tacked lopsidedly to the wall with batarangs (and truly, what a miserable name for a fine weapon) and the list drawn upon in blue ink had increased in length once more. It was aggravating. 

Grayson had been the one to demand Damian obtain a hobby and he had said that there were ‘No rules, do what you want and have fun! Thats the point!’ But then when Damian had begun making sport of the various animal fighting rings thriving in the Gotham underbelly he had changed his tune. 

A fickle, extravagant peacock, Grayson was. Were he not also skilled, Damian would have long ago disposed of him. 

And thus had the board been created. 

Rules upon rules upon addendums. There were charts. And poorly drawn facsimiles of human faces in various states of despair. 

Yet what it all indicated was that Damian could not utilize his skills in pursuing any sort of hobby and that it could not be something he could enjoy. Which directly contradicted Graysons first statement!

Glaring at the most recent addendum, Damian once again tasted the previously unknown but now very familiar tang of regret. 

When his mother had sent him to America and his father, he had many expectations. He had expected his father to test him and begin training him, shoring up whatever weakness remained in his skillset. His entire life he had trained for the sole purpose of someday matching his mother, his father and his grandfather. He had dared, even, to dream of surpassing them. 

But it seemed all his training had been for naught.

He knew more ways to kill a man than there were species of insect and yet, what good was such knowledge to a man who did not kill? He has at least a cursory knowledge of every weapon known to man but did not know how to negotiate the intricacies of preserving life. 

It had never occurred to him that such skills would be of value. 

And there had been a yet another aspect of his fathers life that he had not known to expect. Bruce Wayne was, in his own way, as powerful as a Batman and as his heir Damian…

Damian was under equipped. 

Never before had Damian been less than adequate. In the few instances in which he had not excelled, he had at the very least managed. 

Turning sharply away from the board, Damian went back the way he had come, his previous plan of training turned sour. 

Back in the manor he spent a few moment stalking Pennyworth through the ground floor, watching as the man pottered about with a polishing cloth whilst humming under his breath. He knew the servant was aware of his presence; Damian knew few who were as preceptive as the man. Generally this would mean that Damian should test his mettle against the mans abilities, but both father and Grayson had ordered him to treat the man with uttermost respect and that attacking or otherwise dealing injury upon his person would have the gravest of consequences. 

Eyes narrowed and teeth grit against his displeasure, he climbed the stairs and let himself into Graysons rooms. Not that it was difficult, considering the man refused the to secure his own premises. Even the rudimentary lock was rarely utilized. 

Damian had grudgingly taken it upon himself to instruct Grayson in the necessity of a well secured base, but all of his methods had thus far failed. Theft of personal possessions merely sparked rambling and pointless conversations regarding the objects origins, sentimental value and whether or not Damian had any reciprocal anecdotes. Ambushing him merely led to an impromptu spar that Graysons spent most of his energy laughing through. 

It was infuriating. 

Hurling himself down into the extravagant heap of pillows and overstuffed bed coverings that Grayson claimed was a bed, Damian spent a few moments arranging caltrops in various, optimal positions. That the tips were somewhat blunted and the barbs filed flat was not due to any concern on his part in regards to the buffoons safety; he merely did not wish to listen to the mans complaints during patrol. 

Scowling once more, he lay on his back and stared at the batarang scarred ceiling. 

This restlessness could have been avoided if Graysons had deigned to take Damian with him to visit father. Damian was already forced to work with Grayson under the mantle, rather than his father. At least the man was…. relatively competent. 

But now he was being kept from his father entirely and it was not to be born. 

Grayson assured him they would have plenty of time together once his father was fully recovered and returned from whatever mysterious haven he had vanished to. Damian had explained that Grayson was fool if he thought Damian was bothered by his fathers absence. He was merely inconvenienced at losing his tutelage and was aggravated at the wasted time.

And so Grayson had suggested he find a hobby to occupy himself with until his father resumed his training.

And thus his current situation. 

No weaponry collection. No chasing the unworthy through the Gotham streets. No hunting Pennyworth through the manor (though that had proven to be an unfortunate experiment in the end. Damian was unaccustomed to becoming prey to his own quarry). No building of trebuchets on the front lawn to smite the unwelcome visitors that dared to show their faces. 

Damian was not going to collect stamps, no matter how much Grayson pleaded. 

The one and only promising activity that Damian was wisely keeping to himself, was creating dossiers of the Gotham elite. For the moment he was was mostly limited to obtaining information from the society pages or internet. 

Damian had not had the opportunity to refine his high society mannerisms since the Opera house catastrophe. Before reaching his father and the incompetent wenches that had caused his injury, Damian had been considering recruiting Timothy. His show of competency had been surprising and significantly increased Damians estimation as to his usefulness. And perhaps it would prove a decent distraction in regards towards Graysons determined pursuit of socialization with his supposed peers. 

Perhaps, he thought while turning a caltrop between his fingers, finding the boy and acquiring his aid in refining his public persona.

He was unsure if it would qualify as a hobby, but it would at least fill the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No TWs for this chapter, I think....
> 
> Its super hard to write Damian, but not as difficult as writing Dick. This update is pretty short (and a little late, again) but I hope you enjoyed
> 
> Comment if inclined and have a nice week!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs at bottom of chapter

The Red Hood had struck again over the weekend. Three times, three locations, three separate criminal enterprises. A meth lab in the Alley, a trafficker in the Row and an underground bookkeeping location in the business district. 

Tim drank instant coffee that he might had made too strong, considering the thick consistency, and stared at the screen, finger scratching along the crack in the handle of his mug. His face scrunched at both the taste of the coffee and the fact that Hood had, once again, stolen a march on Tim and taken the bookkeeper. 

Granted, he’d not gathered very much evidence yet and he was planning to wait until the seasons big game, when it was guaranteed to have cash stored on premises. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a little bitter at being forced to once again scrounge for another rich target. 

He scrolled through another report of the crime-scene and wondered what the mans ultimate goal was. It certainly did not align with Batmans, considering Hood certainly did not go out of his way to leave behind evidence of his victims wrongdoings. And also that fact that he used a gun and his confirmed death count was nearly in the teens. 

It seemed random. The level of violence fluctuated somewhat, from merely temporarily incapacitating to debilitating to fatal. Some seemed to be instances of serendipity, Hood coming across a crime in progress and… dealing with it immediately. Others were clearly well thought out, planned in advance with the sort of information only an insider or someone with very good resources could have. 

The news outlets were slowly beginning to report on the matter and were divided on it. Some praised the extreme measures taken, while others were certain it would only lead to further escalation in violent crime. Some claimed that this was the sort of thing Batman should have been doing from the beginning, a more permanent solution. Others were simply saying that Batman should be taking Red Hood down as he did every other Gotham villain. Not that Batman had not attempted to do so, but there were rumors of a new Robin, so Tim doubted that there would be a head to head battle anytime soon. Even if the Red Hood could be caught, which was just as doubtful. 

One thing was certain; the city was coiling tighter and tighter with the sort of tension that would snap explosively. 

Tim glanced at the nightstand where an innocuous scrap of paper was tucked in the back corner of the drawer. He could at least conclusively state that he hadn’t the first idea about anything in regards to Red Hood at all. 

Shoving the laptop from his legs with a snort of disgust, Tim staggered through the dark of his room, toes catching in discarded clothing and plastic bags, kicked an empty soda can agains the wall until he reached the door and could fumble for the handle. He internally cursed the length of time it took to acclimatize from a lit screen to darkness as he shuffled towards the kitchen. 

The cabinets groaned as he rummaged through them. The selection was poor, to say the least and he tiredly determined to go shopping later in the day. From the top corner of the cabinet above the stove, he found a dented box of microwavable noodles and listlessly began preparing them.

Perhaps he should just start eating fruit again. No prep involved there, or waiting either. Just swipe up whenever he passed by the bowl and eat it raw. 

There was no table in the apartment other than the coffee table. The narrow bar island that separated the kitchen from the living area was adequate to the needs of two people and left enough space for a wheelchair to traverse. The three stools that sat tucked under it had come with the apartment and were as uncomfortable as they were cheaply constructed. 

But whether it was at a table or the bar, Tim and his father had not eaten together there once. 

So Tim was startled when his fathers door opened and the painfully slow shuffle of his feet could be heard on the carpet. With a spoonful of slightly too Al Dente macaroni halfway to his mouth, he froze and listened. 

His father had been progressing far more quickly than Tim could ever have anticipated. The numbness in his fingertips and feet still remained, but the atrophy that had sunken him into a caricature of his former self was slowly receding and he attempted to walk more often than he used the chair. 

Tim gripped the spoon, teeth clenched to keep from letting a wobbly smile slip. 

“Timothy,” his dad called and Tim whipped around to look at him where he leaned heavily against the corner of at the wall at the end of the hallway. He wanted to leap up and help his father to the couch or the kitchen or anywhere he wanted to go, but over the last few weeks his father had shoved him away often enough for him to break the habit. 

“Hey, dad! Whats up?”

He didn’t answer immediately, shuffling towards the bar. Tim scrambled to pull out a stool, holding it steady as his dad grabbed at it and eased down. 

There was a sheen of sweat on his fathers face, the stubble from a weekend spent not shaving rasping as he swiped over it with an only slightly unsteady hand. “Get me a beer.”

“Sure, just a moment.”

Before, his father had preferred Guinness and lighter beers, bourbon and scotch. Janet had been the one who liked dark, bitter beers and rich merlots. When at home, her preferred evening beverage had been a cherry wine, so dark that when the light refracted from it, it gleamed like blood. 

It had taken Tim a while to note that much of the beer his father ordered for himself was dark, these days. It had hurt, sharp and strange like a hook through his clavicle, when he finally noticed. 

Nose burning at the bitter fumes, Tim tossed the cap into the garbage as he passed. 

“Are you hungry?”

His father glanced at the bowled of lumpy, poorly mixed macaroni and grimaced. “No.”

Tim slipped onto his stool and forced himself to look back into his bowl. Staring was rude, a lesson he had learned from the time he could first hold up his head on his own, reinforced by a variety of nannies and teachers and his mothers quiet disapproval. Instead, he took another bite of the lumpy, congealing macaroni that tasted even worse than his last bite. 

“Dana scheduled a meeting with her supervisor. To discuss my progress.” His fathers tone was faintly sarcastic, but not biting. Not irritated, as Tim would have expected with such a statement. “She wanted you to attend as well. I told her you were busy.”

Tim hummed agreeably. If that was what his father preferred, then busy he would be, whenever the meeting was scheduled. “What are you going to be discussing?”

He didn’t hold his breath for a response, but was happy when one was provided; he hadn’t had an opportunity to hack the offices files to keep himself apprised. A failing he would have to rectify. 

“Switching to a new therapist,” his father said and took a drink. 

“I thought you liked Dana?”

His father frowned at him. The warning frown, that said he needed to step lightly. It was far more obvious an expression than it had been years ago, deployed only during parties when Tim was saying too much or too little or something not quite politic enough. His own face smoothed into something bland and pleasant in response. 

“I do like her,” his father said and turned to stare at the microwave (bought used, a different color entirely to its predecessor and yet unremarked on). “The sessions are becoming more labor intensive. We think I should have a different therapist, stronger.”

Tim continued eating. He remembered the strength in her grip, for all it had been gentle, the cording of muscle on her arms. Strength was one thing he doubted she lacked. He knew better than to point that out, though. 

“So your appointment times will be changing?”

“Obviously.”

“Okay.” Tim swallowed back a sigh that tasted like fake cheese. Hopefully, the care agency wouldn’t decide to drop them after yet another change of schedule. “I’ll make sure your ride is all sorted out when you get the new times.”

With a grunt, his father subsided into silence. Tims spoon scraped softly against the bottom of the bowl. His father sighed and tapped his thumb agains the side of the bottle. Tim watched the motion from the corner of his eye, feeling more and more tired with every beat. 

“I’m tired. Go get my chair.”

“Right,” Tim said, already off the stool and halfway down the hall. His skin was crawling again, the familiar trapped feeling moving under it. 

The curtains were pulled back in his fathers room, the weak indirect sunlight coming in down the narrow space between the neighboring building flooding the room. The clothing that he had once had to pick his way through was now in the hamper and the charge sat int eh corner, already charging. Tim stood for a moment in the doorway, looking. 

He should have felt relieved. Happy, on behalf of both of them, but all he felt was unease. As though the other shoes was hovering far overhead, hiding behind silver edged threads waiting for the perfect moment to plummet and crush him. 

He sighed and unplugged the chair.

Still on the stool, his father was picking at the label of the bottle, peeling back the edges before smoothing them flat again, eyes fixed over the counter and on the cabinet doors across the kitchen. Tim positioned the chair behind him before collecting his bowl and scrapping it in the trash. 

He hadn’t been hungry in the first place anyway. 

The thing about learning that the League of Assassins on his trail was that it did not impact the state of his world much at all. The same difficulties still loomed, unresolved and growing larger with every passing second. 

The savings account was dwindling with every new bill. He had always envisioned the emergency money he had painstakingly put aside being there and then gone in an instant, a moment of crisis that would be solved immediately. It was more nerve-racking by far to see it slowly trickle away penny by penny. His father had yet to settle on a new carer, which meant that some days none were available, and the agency was beginning to lose patience. And Tim was still functioning as the CEO of Drake Ind. and despite it being laughably small compared to its previous state it was still a time consuming and intellectually labor intensive endeavor. 

And now he had the Red Hood to be concerned over as well. 

Tim curled tighter around the mass of cords and laundry that was steadily taking over his couch. At this rate he would wind up sleeping on the floor. 

Through the ajar door he could hear his father getting ready. Now that all PT appointments were at noon Tim had even less free time during the day. Sometimes his father would sleep until an hour before the appointment, but other times would be active throughout the entire morning. And with no carer there to help him in the event of an emergency, Tim couldn’t leave him alone. 

His arm and shoulder still ached, a pulsing throb that left him stiff and wincing whenever he woke. He had taken to using the bands from Dana more frequently than his dad, which was at least keeping him limber if not allowing himself to heal quickly. With assassins roaming the city he couldn’t risk being slow or handicapped in any way. 

Screwing his eyes tight shut, he groaned into a wadded up pair of jeans.

An hour later he had managed to peel himself out of his room, see his father off with the carer of the day and straighten the apartment. The carer would bring his father back and remain until 8:00, which gave Tim just enough time to make headway against exactly one problem. 

The previous week had been spent searching for a way to acquire money. It had once been fairly simple, but with Red Hoods frequent and seemingly random appearances and Batman training a new protege and therefore hitting the lower level criminals that Tim had previously obtained funds from, there was little in the way of options. 

But, after searching and scrounging for information high and low and on the net and off, he had finally found a potential target that, hopefully, would not be swooped out from under him by the Red Hood or Batman. 

The projectors, now his preferred method of reviewing notes, were painting the walls of his room with files and maps and he reviewed them again as he dressed. His hair was knotted and greasy to the touch and he grimaced as he shoved it beneath a beanie. It was too warm for it, but a better option than wasting time on a shower. 

With a last glance at the GU campus map on the wall, he disconnected his laptop and shoved it into its hiding place in the bathroom, behind the baseboard beneath the sink cabinet. It sat in powered down, plastic wrapped shame and he grimaced when he looked at it, fondly recalling all his previous and far better hidey holes. 

A prescription drug dealer had been working on campus for the past year, building up a solid clientele and a reputation for always having the best, highest doses of scripts. So far they had not been too ambitious and had escaped the notice of police and the various gangs that would otherwise have demanded a cut. Payment seemed to be primarily cash or favors.

Which, hopefully, meant that Tims excursion would prove fruitful. 

Locking up behind him, he set off down the hall, mind already clearing and the omnipresent discomfort fading in the face a new mission. 

The smile on his face went unnoticed as he rode the elevator down.

A hard nights work and some skinned palms later, Tim was in possession of a little under fourteen thousand dollars in various bills and a Kierny Tech laptop. The first was a relief but the latter was proving of far more interest. 

It was ugly and heavy and modified down to its last wire. In monetary terms it was worth at least half of the money he had taken. In a less tangible sense? Priceless. 

Tim grinned and ran his hands over the casing, the edges of various energy drink stickers catching against his palms. It would take time to figure out how it worked and just as much time reprogramming it according to his own preferences, but in the end it would be well worth it. 

He almost felt bad for stealing it. 

It was midnight and the apartment was quiet as it ever was, the creaking of the building, the shuffling of the insomniac resident of the apartment above them, the quiet hum of his fathers TV. 

Tim had managed to secure enough funds for the next few months, if he used them wisely, which in turn provided him breathing room. And with a computer of such quality, a whole new avenue of investigative power was available to him again. 

The next morning the cash was deposited in various accounts, some of it secreted throughout the building and three thousand given to his father. With any luck, it would all last for a few months. Drake Ind. was still covering most of the rent and Tim was hoping that by the next year it would be profitable enough to cover all the expenses entirely. 

As it was he had approximately three months to get the rest of his problems taken care of and he was planning to use every minute wisely. 

To start, he took the laptop down into the speakeasy and spent a solid eight hours bent over it. 

It was…. fun, stripping it clean and removing all trace of the previous owner. Recalibrating it and hooking it into the various and sundry parts he had brought down in the hopes of someday having a workable setup. The dealer had certainly not been using it to its fullest capacity and whatever remorse Tim had felt when taking it was quashed during the first five minutes of clearing its storage of porn.

When he was finished he sat back and beamed at it, in all its Frankensteinien glory. There was still a lot to do to make it untraceable and secure, a good twenty hours at least, but it had the processing power to do it. 

He hadn’t had such a tool since… well, since his first contact with the League. 

His mood instantly plummeted at the reminder and he closed the laptop gently.

He winced as he stood. It was cold underground, and his body hurt with it, extremities numb. Hobbling over to the mats he spent a few hours working through forms, which at least warmed him up but left him just as sore. 

The guai felt oddly heavy in his hands. Unwieldy. The feeling went away after the first few minutes, but that it was there at all was unsettling. 

It was difficult to practice at the apartment. He was rarely alone there and his father would take note if Tim started performing katas in the living room with barely legal weaponry. He had disapproved the few times Tim had done yoga, which left Tim with little to do but stretches and weight lifting in his room. It wasn’t optimal; he could feel his skills atrophying with every missed session. Constant practice was the only remedy but he simply did not have the time or the space. Overworking himself during whatever brief window of opportunity came about was not enough. 

He felt bare and exposed, not even the fact that hundreds of tons of stone and cement and earth separated him from the rest of the world feeling like a strong enough bulwark.

He didn’t know what to do. Lady Shiva and the League, he wasn’t equipped to face either of them, much less both together. And Shiva, for all that he had been her one time student, would not hesitate to kill him if they crossed paths. And he didn’t even understand why the League would care about him in the first place. Other than some voice at the other end of a brief connection promising to find him. 

Eyes shut against the sting of sweat, turning cold as soon as it formed, Tim stopped at the edge of the mat. A few seconds later the timer set on the table rang, the sound bouncing off the walls and piercing his brain like claws. 

He racked the guai, powered down his station and dragged himself up to the surface. 

His skin crawled all the way home.

The door to the apartment stuck when opening it from the outside. It took a solid thump of the fist to the space just above the handle to unstick it, which had the benefit of alerting Tim to anyone trying to come through, and was why he hadn’t bothered to fix it and make it silent like he had his bedroom door. Unfortunately, that meant that if Tim wanted to come in extremely late without waking his father, he needed to do so through a window. 

One leg dangling through the bathroom window while he contorted his body to fit through, Tim froze at the sound of his fathers voice. 

It was in a cadence that took several seconds for Tim to recognize, it had been so long since he last heard it. Conversational. An easy ebb and flow, the occasionally deep laugh that rasped and rumbled from deep in his dads chest. 

There was no other voice and so Tim assumed it was a phone conversation. He listened as he stepped carefully onto the back of the toilet, easing the window shut and replacing the chip of broken tile he balanced on the latch in order to keep track of potential tampering. 

“—-this weekend?” A long pause, another rough chuckle. Tim stood in the bathroom door with his hand clamped tight around the doorknob as he strained to hear. “Why not somewhere requiring less effort? Not every single outing has to serve a therapeutic purpose.”

The hallway floor creaked in several places and Tim placed his feet carefully as he crept towards his fathers door. It was cracked, a thin sliver of light from the bedside lamp casting a yellow line on the wall.

“No, no, but you can’t blame me for thinking you have some kind of ulterior motive. Parks and overlooks? Really?” 

Close enough now to hear the indistinct sound of a female voice through speakers, he leaned heavily against the wall and held his breath. 

“Timothy? No, I think he’s busy this weekend too. Yes, yes, I know. He’s a busy kid. Always off doing something.” His father snorted. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time to take him out with us. But its not so bad with just us two, is it?” Another laugh, deeper, more authentic. “I know. Alright. See you tomorrow Dana. Sweet dreams.”

Something felt out of balance in his head as Tim knocked on the door. A feeling like vertigo, manifesting psychologically rather than physically, making his emotions wobble somewhere between disbelief and a strange kind of anger.

There a was a moment of quiet. And then a long sigh. “What?”

He pushed the door open and stared at his father, sitting propped at the head of the bed and frowning at Tim, cellphone in one hand. 

“How long?” Tim asked softly, and looked down at the ragged edges of his own nails. 

“What?”

He took a deep breath and spoke louder, voice even. “How long have you been seeing each other?”

His scoffed. “Its not your business, Timothy.”

Tim bit his tongue and closed his eyes. He should have realized from the moment he saw them together. Sure, flirtation by both his parents had been a common occurrences, just another meaningless form of communication between the Gotham elite, but Dana was not a member of that society. Flirtation between them served no purpose and Tim should have realized it immediately. And afterward, when his father was so determined to change therapists despite having such a good rapport with Dana. 

His own stupidity was mortifying. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why should I have. Its not your business,” his father snapped and tossed the phone against the bottom of the bed. 

It was true, of course, but Tim couldn’t quite smother the burn of unfamiliar hurt and anger. 

“But— but what about mom? And—“

His fathers head jerked up and snarled. “What about her? She’d dead, Timothy. I’m still alive and I’ll be damned if I don’t start acting like it.”

The words were like a blow and Tims breath huffed out as though it had actually, physically landed. 

It was— it was a good point. Logical. Janet Drake was dead. Survived by her husband and son, just as the obituaries and papers had laid out in blank black and white. The ink itself might smear and muddle, but the facts would stay iron clad. 

She was dead. They were alive. 

The sour burn of bile curled up the back of his throat and he swallowed it back, jerking his head down.

“Don’t act like that. Its not like you have any high ground here, going out and coming back in at all hours.” His fathers face was flushed, teeth bared and eyes clear. Very clear, and Tim realized that he hadn’t noticed the reemergence of his fathers intellect after so many months of blank apathy. 

It had been stupid to think Tims comings and goings hadn't been noticed. 

“Living your life,” his father continued. “Its my right to do the same. So wipe that look off your face!”

The words slipped out before he even thought them. “So why did you lie about it?”

The red in his fathers face flushed darker and his hands curled into fists in the bed covers. 

“Watch your mouth, Timothy.”

And the right thing to do would be obey, but Tim felt his mouth falling open and words falling out and didn’t even try to stop them. Everything sounded just slightly tinny, felt slightly too warm and heavy. 

“You’re lying to Dana, too.” Everything he had overheard was snapping into place, a puzzle completing itself in the back of his mind and creating a clear picture from which to extrapolate. “She wants us all to go out together. She thinks that I knew. Why did you let her think that when it wasn't true?” 

Why indeed? What purpose was there in keeping the two of them apart? Did his father simply not want any distractions or was there another reason? There wasn't enough data to form a theory, so Tim moved on.

“So that’s why you changed therapists. She’s a professional, I imagine she refused to have a relationship while she was your provider.” Which, considering the hurry in which his father had changed physical therapists, meant that he had… asked her out beforehand. Which meant that his fathers interest had been there almost from the start. 

Which… which meant, all the changes, all the effort and the sudden cessation of drinking and the reappearance of his previous determination and charm and personality…

It was all because of Dana. 

All that progress and all the pride Tim had felt for his fathers felt suddenly cheap. Felt like a lie. 

“I wonder what she would say if she knew how much you’ve lied?” Tim mumbled. 

Tim had been trained by Lady Shiva and so it was his own fault that the tv remote hit. He hadn't even attempted to evade and it was only as it rebounded away that he even noticed it at all. Copper sweet heat flooded over his tongue and he pressed his lips closed, sealing it behind his teeth.

“Get out!” Jack shouted. He was upright, unsteady feet braced wide. The phone was back in his hand and Tim glanced at it, static crunching in his ears. “Get out! If you cants speak with respect then get out!”

Tim didn’t need to be told again. 

Tim had always heard that keeping track of time underground was difficult. He imagined it would have been, for those poor souls without an internet connection. For his part, he was excruciatingly aware of every hour as it ticked away in the corner of his various screens. 

After three days the stockpile of bottled water and granola had dwindled to barely half of what it had been but the progress he had made with all the uninterrupted time was worth it. 

Cables seeped like spilled spaghetti off the edges of the table in the center of the room. Cobbled together from dozens of butchered computers and gaming systems, it was a lopsided behemoth with a hundred green and blue and red flickering eyes. It purred and groaned and clicked, filling the hollow silence that had once been all pervasive. The scent of lightly scorched dust and warm rubber wafted on the breeze created by dozens of busy interior fans. Only being underground in such a cold environment keeping it from overheating entirely. 

Seated crosslegged on an empty crate, wrist deep in a mostly empty bag of tacky granola, Tim stared at his creation with both pride and an intense feeling of bafflement. 

He couldn’t believe it worked. 

High overhead he was spliced in several satellite dishes throughout the neighborhood and a good twelve hours of hacking had given him semi sporadic access to a few private and whether satellite systems.

All told, he had everything he needed. 

The split in his lip had yet to heal. They rarely did, when Tim was involved. He couldn’t help prodding at it with his tongue, poking at it and disrupting his own body’s attempt at self repair. 

Tim was both a multitasker and a single-focus obsessive; the majority of his attention would be bent to the most important task as hand, but the rest of his brain was hardly going to slack off in the meantime. So even while he stripped and rewired and coded and hacked, his fathers words were torn apart and inspected and resembled again just to repeat the process. 

For all the time he’d spent thinking about it, he still didn’t have a solution. 

But his father was correct about one thing at least; they were alive and if he wanted that to mean anything he had to start acting like it. 

He rolled the bag of granola closed and tossed it to the side. Drained the last dregs from his water bottled and threw it into the trash bag of recyclables by the dumbwaiter. 

Then he rocked to his feet and shuffled over to the table. 

Fourteen minutes. From start to finish, that was as long as he had. After that he would be traced. And that was only in the event whoever was charged with the tracing wasn’t better than him. 

He didn’t think they would be. But it would be foolish to count on it. 

Ideally, he would have proceeded the same way he once had, in a public location where anonymity was guaranteed. He would have, had his computer been mobile. As it was, he would have to rely on his own programming and his location dozens of feet below the earth. Even if his location were pinpointed it would be assumed to be the laundry overhead. 

It was a risk. Stupid, maybe. Keeping his head down and hoping might be the safest route to take. No one had found him yet and perhaps as long as he didn’t draw attention, no one ever would. 

Was it arrogance? he wondered. Or the curiosity that ate him from the inside out like acid spilling from a cracked battery. The need to know that had sent him into the streets every night, alone and reckless and determined to find answers. Just to know. 

It was selfish. But he had always been selfish. 

The processors lined up on the jury-rigged desk in the storage room were humming. The air around them noticeably warmer. The tarp he usually covered the station with was on the ground in a rumpled heap and rustled every time his restlessly swinging feet brushed it. The grip of his guai were prodding his stomach with every inhale where he had them stacked in his lap, for no other reason than they provided a likely false sense of security. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

The method was different now. A delivery service rather than a dating site. However the icon that spun on a black screen after he made his way through the code words and first payment was the same. 

[SPECIFY TARGET]

For a moment his hands hung over the keys, unmoving. They weren’t shaking but they felt cold. So did the rest of him. 

[SPECIFY TARGET]

Tim huffed out a laugh. Shook out his hands. 

The photo had been sitting in the bottom of an empty rooftop water, on a usb drive he’d stolen while still at Gotham Academy. It wasnt a photo he himself had taken, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the subject, the scorched, empty dregs of a safehouse that had once belonged to the League. A safehouse Tim had forced them to burn. He sent it off with a click of the keys.

[i heard you were looking for me]

The icon spun round and round and Tim waited. The timer in the corner of the screen was cycling through seconds seemingly too slowly. 

[i thought anonymity was part of contract] 

Another long moment as Tim watched the seconds ticking by and then a click. The icon vanished, leaving nothing but blank black screen and a dimly familiar voice. 

“Hello, Stranger.” 

Tim swallowed hard and settled his hands back on the keyboard. 

Time to start living his life.

[why are you looking for me]

“I did say I would,” the man said. Just as the last time, a steady rhythm began. Four thudding clicks in a row. “We have so much to discuss, you and I.”

[we do not]

“Your opinion on the matter is inconsequential.” 

Tims teeth ground together as he hissed. 

[my opinion matters as much as my ability. i said do not make an enemy of me]

“You did indeed. However.” The rhythm abruptly ceased. “One should never, ever, make an enemy of me.”

Tim jolted as an alarm chimed, joined almost immediately by a host of others. Firewalls and dummy servers burning, too quickly for it to be one person, or even a single team. 

“I look forward to our meeting, Stranger.”

The amused drawl followed him as Tim disconnected, all attention turned to keeping his systems intact as he toppled his own coding and tripped the alarms of the satellites, hoping it would cause as much trouble for whoever was tracing him as it would for Tim himself. 

It had been less than nine minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for the escalation of emotional abuse to physical, Tim making for poor decisions and possibly for a bit of a cliffhanger? I'm not sure if it qualifies as such but eh...
> 
> I'm so sorry! I did not mean to just piss off like this, I swear! I've been helping my mother with getting ready for the holidays, and helping some of my crew move. Its been busy. And also I've been super uninspired. But most importantly; winter came early and I can no longer sit out in the sun and photosynthesize my creative juices. Its hard ;^;
> 
> I will try to keep on schedule, but I'm afraid it might be inconsistent for the next few months. Sorry.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed! Comment if inclined and have a nice week :)


	27. Not an Update - Take 2

Just writing in to let you all know I probably won't be updating this month. Things have been really weird and my area keeps getting warnings about blackouts. I'm fine of course, and I love me some power outages (the opportunity to wander around the house with a lit candle, feeling like a Georgette Heyer heroine is always appreciated). That being said, some people have told me to make sure the Amber Alert on my phone is activated just in case, and considering the current climate I thought I should pass the message on, no matter how silly it makes me feel. Apparently you sometimes have to actually turn it on, who knew? 

I WILL be continuing this story, and I'm sorry updates are taking so long :( For now, have fun and be safe and keep an ear open!

**Author's Note:**

> So I have another few chapters of this. I remember enjoying writing it, so if anyone is interested I would not be opposed to trying to write more. Regardless, I'll post what I have on Sundays.  
> Please let me know if I missed anything that should be tagged  
> Stay safe, stay sane, have fun!


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